An Echo Of Footfalls
by kidders
Summary: Frodo begins to experience the evil the Ring wields before Gandalf returns and he leaves the Shire
1. Default Chapter

Chapter 1: An Echo Of Footfalls Author: Kidders Fandom: Lord Of The Rings Rating: PG-13, for violence and mild torture and bodily fluids Genre: Angst, horror Setting: A split between movie-verse and the book, the story takes place after Bilbo leaves Bag End, and Gandalf departs. The book says that Gandalf popped in from time to time to check on Frodo's health, before he left on his journey. This is a little drabble on how the Ring starts to affect Frodo before Gandalf returns. So it's pretty much movie-verse, maybe slightly AU. Disclaimer: I, of course, don't own anything here, it belongs solely to JRR Tolkien. I'm just having a bit of fun with the characters. And thanks to Peter Jackson, who made a wonderful movie, which I only rented recently and discovered, much to my chagrin, what I had been missing! I marched straight out and bought the books after watching the movie. All I can say is.WOW!!! Feedback: Please keep flames to a minimum. Like I said, I am very new to this fandom. And I've noticed that LOTR fans, on the whole as compared to other fanfic I've read, are really, really fine writers! POV: Frodo first person, with a nightmare peek into someone else's life.  
  
AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
  
  
Footfalls echo in the memory  
  
Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened  
  
~T. S. Eliot  
  
The steady, clanking rasp of metal forging upon itself drags me from a restless slumber, as my eyes open to darkness and shadow, neither of which belongs in Bag End. I blink, assuring myself that my eyes are indeed open and seeing, though the sight that meets my beseeching gaze leaves me wondering if I should be better off blind. For a great pillar of fire rises in the night sky, plundering everything in its path as it lays waste to forests and meadows and lands I do not even recognize. Black destruction is left smoldering in the wake. 'Twas a mountain churning out fiery death to great legions of armies that dare to put down siege, where the foul stench of smoke and ash and decay makes the air nearly unfit to breathe.  
  
I shrink from this bleak vision, tearing my eyes from it so I can watch no more. But find though my eyes are squeezed tightly shut, I cannot turn away. Drawn like a moth to a flickering flame, the heat bakes my skin until sweat is a burning trickle down my face and every breath is torture. Pressure grows in my arms and legs, until I writhe under the onslaught, my limbs stretched taut so they will not move even a little, this uncomfortable positioning soon transforming to a piercing agony where muscle and ligament are forced to slip their natural bounds.  
  
Then comes a loud pop, like a cork flying loose from a barrel of spirits, and my shoulder is gripped by a pain so sharp and sudden, it rents an agonized scream from my throat. As I lie there gasping and sobbing, trying to ignore the wrenching ache that pounds my arm without mercy, a horribly disfigured face looms over me. The twisted mouth gurgles out a question, sputtering a vile spray of saliva across my chin. Great, red- golden eyes leer at me from above, full of anticipation and perversion, harsh peals of growling squeals expressing delight at my pain and an eagerness to deliver more cruelty. Soon, an orange glow descends toward my prone flesh, a brand poised to consume me in fire.  
  
"Where is it? Where is it?!" the creature shrieks, joined by a raucous cacophony of voices that roar so loud I think my eardrums might surely burst. "Where is the One Ring?"  
  
Ring?, I think, dazed. Bilbo's ring? I don't understand.  
  
Panicked thoughts swirl desperately in my mind, none evidently forming on my tongue because the terrible fire is immediately pressed to my bare flesh, and everything is pain. Scream after scream is ripped from deep in my throat, until I can no longer draw breath, the need for air diminishing my cries into pitiful, hiccuppy whimpers.  
  
"Where is the Ring, you gormless rat?! You'll tell us, or that hide of yours will be roastin', a bubble-an'-squeak, good to eat.an' nice little cobblers."  
  
The Ring, the Ring, my Precious.no, no, it's mine. My own. Not to take .mine! This strange thought continues to echo in my mind, unvoiced, leaving me with next to nothing to fathom its meaning. Ideas here, though, matter naught. Fire no longer sizzles against my chest, but the burning still lingers in the wound, branding the hurt in deeper. Orcs, I realize numbly, they are orcs. Abominations. Hideous, ugly creatures seen only in nightmares, never in truth. Bilbo wrote of them, in one of his tales.  
  
"Where is the One?" they cackled.  
  
"No.please, have mercy!" I cry. But they care not.they have no pity, no heart. Flames swoop down to tear at my tattered skin, and the shrieks born from my mouth sound hoarse and anguished, a guttural cry not like my own voice at all. Two words form, driven upon my trembling lips as another scream gathers in my lungs. Why I speak them, I know not.  
  
"Shire.Baggins."  
  
Then darkness sings to me, calling me home, and I succumb at last, falling over the precipice and into doom.  
  
***********************************************************  
  
Thus, the darkness holds me still when my eyes fly open, and I feel the scream lodged somewhere deep in my throat quickly smother into silence. Staring wildly into the blackness, my heart trips a fearful rhythm beneath my ribs, sweat pouring down my face as gasps shake away my feeble efforts for control.  
  
I recognize at length the familiar shadows of Bag End, and while the thought of Bilbo's inheritance should comfort me, it does not. No fire burns in the hearth, and I shiver in the cool, night air, wracked by chills in spite of the fact the rays of summer stubbornly cling to the lands of Hobbiton. It feels as though winter's cold embrace has reached my very bones, terror striking me dumb where I stand, frozen as if death itself has ridden down from some hellish plateau and lain claim to my inanimate body.  
  
A faint breeze stirs through a half-open window, tickling a few stray tendrils of my hair where it is not plastered to my scalp, drying the sweat on my skin. It almost seems a living thing, whispers rising to taunt at my thoughts, breaking into a haunting melody. Frodo.Frodo of the Shire. Voices, voices in the wind, I must be going mad. Falling into fever- dreams. Hearing spirits that hold no form.  
  
You will be ours.soon, my Precious. It comes, wrought by fate.you despair, adopted one.you drown in despair to the pity of all.  
  
"No." I am awake now. How do they know my name? I clamp my hands over my ears, head shaking frantic denial, wet fringe slapping low across my brow. Resistance stiffens my spine, forging a hardened resolve into my words which I truly doubt I can maintain should this smite continue. "No, you're not real, I won't listen! Leave me and return to whatever tormented dirge you hail from."  
  
Frodo.Frodo, luv.I've missed you.  
  
I think I make some sound then, a ravaged squeak of pure fright because all at once, the apparition that speaks to my mind has taken my mama's voice, her sweet gentle tones perverted into something unspeakable.  
  
Frodo.precious Frodo.put on the Ring for Mama.  
  
A claw of terror closes around my throat, and suddenly I can't breathe. The air hangs suspended in my lungs, my tongue imprisoned by a cloying dryness that makes it feel attached to the roof of my mouth, grief and mindless fear weaving together into a tapestry of such panic that I believe my heart might stop from the sheer shock of it.  
  
Come here, my sweet.let Mama hold you.  
  
"No, Mama.no.don't," I slur, trying to coax what little sight I retain into something more than faint lines of shape and shadow. Finding when I blink, that I am standing near the hearth with no memory of leaving my bed. Dry parchment curls under my fingertips, and with a start I see that I hold the sealed envelope into which Gandalf had placed Bilbo's ring. Oh, Elbereth! The wizard's warning rekindles vividly into recollection, like dragon's breath upon a drought-parched field. Never put it on, Frodo. Keep it secret.keep it safe. Escape.I must flee. Before it is too late.  
  
With a disgusted cry, I fling the evil thing into the now-dormant hearth, but twirl too fast in my haste, sending a wave of dizzying disorientation hammering through my senses. I can't see! Why is it so dark? Cold, icy hands draw around my shoulders, clutching me in a hard embrace, skeletal fingers raking through my lank, tangled curls, brushing the back of my neck before coming to rest on my flushed cheeks. And then the smell of briny water and decayed flesh hits me, and I let loose a piercing shriek. I have known fear, but never like this, never such a horrid and repulsive sensation that makes acid rise in my throat and plucks away any shred of control I have left.  
  
"NO!" The gasp is torn from my lips, sounding as if it has broken something inside. A hot surge of foul wetness rushes from between my legs, dribbling about my feet and staining the muslin cloth I wear. Some small part of my mind still able to function registers this mortifying indignity, but the fear has gained such momentum that it is all I comprehend. Fly, Frodo.fly!  
  
Dashing through the study, I take the quickest route-I dive out the open window, landing hard in the prickly hedge that runs along the sill, smashing flat the last blooming sunflowers and snap-dragons, my nightshirt twisting about my legs like a snare tripped proper. I scrabble frantically, churning up dirt and grass, making small whimpering noises as I gain my feet and race through the garden and down the hill, hardly daring to look behind me.  
  
The silvery beams from a new moon barely illuminate a path through the pitch-black night, and I plow into the West gate at a full run, wood splintering and digging into my palms as it springs open under my weight. I spill into a shadowy field bordered by well-tended hedgerows, which rise in the darkness like sentries defending a tower wall. My breath is sobbing in my throat, and still I run, ignoring the tearing pain in my side, tears blinding as they coat my eyes in a blurry film, and I can hear the water gurgling now, it is so close.  
  
But the night denies me any warning of the obstacle which lies in my path, a rotting Alder limb that I vaguely discern a moment before my right foot catches and twists, sending me sprawling in an ungainly heap. I throw up my hands to break my fall, feel a raggedly-sharp branch scald across my palm, the spear shredding my flesh and sending a fierce jolt of pain up my arm with such speed, I am yelling before I hit the ground. My vision dwindles to twin points of blackness as I land with my middle folded over a bit of smooth bark, not sharp but unyielding, so as to force every trace of air from my lungs.  
  
My chest heaves as I lie there, stunned senseless by pain and fright, and I truly cannot breathe now, this new fear clouding my mind, my panic not eased until my gasping struggles at last drew breath back into my starving lungs. I twist to glance behind me, glimpse no ghostly demons converging from the Western fields to mount an assault. With a ragged sigh of relief, I crawl free from the Alder and roll onto my back, clutching my right hand around the wrist and squeezing, wishing to trade the throbbing sting along my third finger for a lesser pain. A steady rush of warmth trickles down my hand, sticky and sweet in aroma. I am glad I can't see the blood that leaks from my body, glad for the cover of darkness.  
  
Sitting up makes my head spin in nauseating circles, my vision hazy at best as I listen to the panicked beat which still flutters in my chest, struggling to take deep breaths, my eyes tearing up from the pain. A warning twinge in my ankle suggests it mightn't be wise to stand just at the moment. It takes great effort to crawl the remaining distance to the river, the pain in my hand plucking away my strength as I drag myself through dirt and mud, the sound of the swiftly, bubbling water of the Brandywine stirring both release and dread in my heart. For my parents drowned in this place. It was many years ago, though I remember it as yesterday. The darkness and the water stealing away everything I had. Leaving me alone in an endless despair, until Uncle Bilbo brought me to Bag End, and I finally was allowed the chance to heal. But now, with Bilbo gone, I feel a seed of the same sad hopelessness creeping upon me, like a vine growing unchecked in the garden, twisting and expanding until it chokes the life from everything around it. Bilbo hasn't come back, nor do I think he ever will. Gandalf-I've not seen him for months. If not for Sam, I think I would wilt and wither away.  
  
At the water's edge, I shed my nightshirt, tossing it into the water to soak, gingerly lowering myself into the cold, but not unpleasant, bath. The sand and silt are a tad rough under my bottom, but not enough to hurt, and least I'll be clean again. Liquid relief washes my legs and feet, rinsing away any residue of my earlier embarrassment, and dunking my head rids my hair and scalp of the sour smell of sweat. Using my good hand, I proceed to scrub my nightshirt until it, too, is unsullied.  
  
Which leaves the task of dealing with my injured hand. I am loathe to have it in the water, however necessary it might be; only with the blood continuing to flow freely, I really have no other choice. The wound needs tending. 'Tis a simple matter. But nothing in my life ever seems to follow such rules. So, after a fortifying breath, I gather my courage around me like an Elven cloak and plunge my right hand into the river.  
  
Halflings never do anything halfway, as they say in Bree. Perhaps they speak of foolish, accident-prone hobbits who have not the sense to stay in their beds during the night? The water merely touches my wound, and my eyes snap fully open, pain sluicing a fierce swoon of torment through my head, such that piteous whimpering seems the only noise I am capable of making. I nearly recoil from the task right then. Breaths hiss between my clenched teeth while the fingers of my left hand haltingly traced the torn edges of flesh that flap loosely under the stir of current. My face pinches tight at the raw hurt, and while I can't see the blood, my questing touch encounters a smooth, foreign hardness which I conclude to be exposed bone.  
  
My next breath hitches on a tremulous gasp, stomach contracting in a violent spasm that floods my mouth with bile, snapping my head forward, and I heave and gag and spit until my ribs feel ready to split apart. Staggering to the bank, I awkwardly tug the shirt over my head, finding that being out of the water causes me to begin shivering uncontrollably. Wearied beyond measure, I collapse on the shore and curl into a pain- wracked ball, right hand clenched in a fistful of cheesecloth to try and staunch the bloody flow.  
  
The direness of my situation begins to ponder in my scrambled thoughts unfettered. Coming this far, alone, I have not steered a wise course. I should never have abandoned Bagshot Row. With my ankle hobbled, and my hand broken and bleeding, how am I ever to get home?  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A//N: Well, should I keep going? Hope it's not too much of a Frodo fluff- fest, riddled with angst and hurt (no comfort yet). Everyone has already written about practically any plot I could dream up, and wonderful pieces they are. This was the only thing I could think of that might be as yet untried. 


	2. Chapter Two: Horrible Imanginings

AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
Chapter 2: Horrible Imaginings  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness  
  
Genre: Angst, horror  
  
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire  
  
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1  
  
POV: Frodo  
  
A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed, I shall try to keep the momentum going  
  
  
  
Present fears  
  
Are less than horrible imaginings  
  
~W. Shakespeare (Macbeth)  
  
I awake to wretched cold, an icy misery that entombs my limbs so the tiniest movement sparks paroxysmal cramping, attacking my calves and thighs with constant agony. My back is a tense bow, relaxed only when the fitful shivers running the length of my body momentarily cease. Which is not long, thus my discomfort is nearly unending. With my eyes finally open, I see that darkness is releasing its claim to the first rosy hues of dawn, and with that detail now apparent, the sobering realization of how dangerous it was to have fallen asleep leaves me stricken with a fearful guilt. Had the air been any less temperate, I could easily have frozen to death. As it is, this cursed shivering is forcing a burdening drain upon my body.  
  
Gingerly uncoiling my fingers from their clutching prison upon my breast, I examine my wound, finding myself swallowing past a shocked lump corked tight in my throat, briefly forgetting the necessity of breathing and nearly losing myself in a quailing faint. The wound looks far worse under the growing light of day. Raw, blood-crusted edges of skin hang from my finger like ruined bits of victuals suitable only for hog slop. Oozing a scarlet-tinged yellow fluid, with gray-white flecks peeking through where the cut runs the deepest. I feel my face flush hot, and twist sideways while my stomach tries to wrench itself into my throat. I vomit bile, somehow making it to my knees as the spasms end. The stench nearly makes me gag, and I hastily drag the edge of my sleeve across my mouth and shuffle downwind.  
  
The feeling is returning to my hand in a mounting pang of throbbing hurt, and I endure the pain with a not-so-stoic groan, clenching my jaw and feeling my upper lip curl away from my teeth. My breaths turn fast and shallow, unwelcome tears prickling in my eyes and making everything swim out of focus. I draw a gulping sip of air, clambering to my feet, wanting nothing more than to take my mind off this painful sword grinding into my flesh, completely ignoring my hobbled foot. The minute I try to bear weight on the ankle, it folds and slams me back into the muddy ground, driving bits of rock and dirt into the cut, and curdling another screech from my mouth. I lie there, nearly overwhelmed by pain, when the sound of something other than my own hoarse gasps reaches my ears. A keening wail that soon whispers into a reedy murmur of my name.  
  
"Frodo."  
  
The fear in my belly coils into a knot of dark foreboding, and I think I stop drawing breath for an indefinable moment. All my nightmares from the previous evening come rushing back, and gooseflesh rolls over my arms from a chill that has nothing to do with the cold. One water-sodden lurch in the wet ground behind me is impetus enough. I regain my feet with a shout, pain roaring through my ankle, but it holds this time and I flee with as much speed as I can muster.  
  
By the time I reach the meadow, my voice is reduced to a mousy squeak, and great gasping sobs issue from my throat until my endurance grows faint. I frantically twist my head to peer over a shoulder, fearing that the hideously black vision is still pursuing me, but see nothing but harmless coppices and hedges, and my relief is so great that I stumble. My weakened ankle has taken all the abuse I have foisted upon it, and finally rebels, sending me tumbling into another hard fall, and I tense for a painful jolt that does not come. I don't hit the ground, instead collide with something warm and soft, and it is another's bones that bear the brunt of the impact.  
  
"Hoy! You could do to watch where yer steppin'!" accuses a breathless voice, sounding cross and aggravated, and thoroughly familiar. It is music to my ears.  
  
"Sam," I groan, keeping my eyes screwed shut, for the pain is growing now, licking at my wounds with a fiery tongue. Who knew that one's finger could hurt this much? He shifts beneath me, and I know without looking his sharp gaze is seeking answers, sensing there is trouble amiss, but my head is lolling in the crook of his shoulder and he can't see my face.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, what's all the commotion about?" I feel him hitch in some air, a task made more difficult for the fact that I am sprawled atop his chest like a drunken layabout. "Yer soakin' wet and covered in mud!" he remarks, and I feel myself being lifted gently. His shock at my revealed appearance is expressed by a dismayed, "'An yer hurt!"  
  
At this simple statement of the obvious, a tinny laugh forces its way past my quivering lips, and once unleashed, I can't seem to stop. Clinging to Sam like a frightened child, my hoarse cackles consume me, resembling nothing joyous. Quite the opposite, I daresay. I press my face to the moleskin shirt, now sobbing soundlessly, tears burning under my lidded sorrow, scalding my cheeks and impelling a hollow, empty ache where my soul rests. I am lost, until Sam's alarmed voice finally registers within my raving thoughts.  
  
"Frodo? Master, what's got you riled so?!"  
  
I gradually quiet, but find no solace in the silence. For something wicked is coming. I don't know how, or why, or even when. Just that it will be, and fate will drag me, unwilling and shackled, to the boundaries of an unknown task. This terrifies me more than any shadowy apparition. Knowing that some seed of wandering doom has found me this past night-it had called, and I.I had answered.  
  
"Frodo!" Sam gives me a good shaking, snapping me back to the present so that my eyes focus properly. I draw back to look at him, feeling the cut on my hand throb in time with the racing of my heart.  
  
"It's alright, Sam," I whisper, my utter weariness denying the words a truthful ring. I cradle my hand protectively, and try to smile. "I've taken a tumble, and injured my ankle," I croak, swallowing hard, aware his eyes are glued to the bloodstains on my nightshirt. "My hand.I've cut it rather badly I'm afraid."  
  
"Aye, this is a right gammy mess, Mr. Frodo." His tone is subdued, an echo of my own. I try not to flinch when callused fingers gently guide my hand to where he can examine it, his grimace making my stomach twitch. I give my palm an attentive glance, thinking this torn, dagger-scored congealed thing can't possibly be a part of me. Even though Sam takes great care not to hurt me, a tingly pain sends a sweat-beaded flush across my forehead. I gulp, and turn my face aside. Maybe 'twould be best if I didn't peer too closely at the damage I've wrought. Ever practical, Sam concludes, "Bet my mum could fix you up proper, though. She sews as straight as arrow shaft, she does."  
  
The thought of a sharp quill piercing my flesh makes my insides jump nervously, and I swallow back a sudden surge of nausea. Letting out a rueful sigh, I surrender to the inevitable. "I suppose you're right, Sam." I ease from the shelter of his arms, intent on walking; however, standing is quite out of the question. In my distress, the plight of my ankle had rather slipped my mind. Irked by my lameness, I give my leg a more lengthy inspection. Pale flesh appears shiny and unnatural, swollen like an overly- ripe marrow, skin drawn taut and blackening from injury. I can't restrain the beleaguered groan that is again elicited from my lips. "I'm.I'll need help ascending this hill," I admit.  
  
Now that Sam's seen this newest hurt, his gaze lingers in a moment of morbid fascination, and I see his throat move in a hasty swallow. "Right you are, Mr. Frodo." With a gentleness that belies the strength in his rough, craggy hands, he coaxes me to my feet, one arm braced around my waist. "I'll see you up the hill and get you settled in Bag End, and my mum will have you good as new in no time at all."  
  
Though I lack his enthusiasm, I allow him to lead me home, in a manner of me hopping on one foot while he steadies my balance. I am grateful it is yet early, and the path is not well-traveled, for certainly my predicament would appear quite ridiculous to anyone who happened to be watching. Currently, I am too uncomfortable to truly care.  
  
Just when I feel I can't possibly take another jolting step, the worn path enticing me as would a feather bed, a snort of disdainful contempt forces my chin back up, and I lock gazes with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. My luck is plainly not improving much. I barely suppress a heavy sigh of resignation as she straightens to her full height, cheeks puffing out so her lips curl into an ugly sneer.  
  
"Filthy Brandybuck," she scorns, eyes boiling with intense ill-will, all of it unfortunately directed my way. "Still groveling about in the dirt, I see. No Baggins would ever sink to your lowly stature. You don't belong here, and my Otho 'tis afraid to say it to yer face, but I've no such qualms. The Shire was given a blessing, I reckon, when that Primula of a Brandybuck passed."  
  
Someone utters a horrified gasp, and I'm certain it wasn't me, so that leaves Sam. I still feel the sting of her words like a slap to the face, even though I make no visible reaction and remain silent. For some reason, I am spared the birch of guilty self-loathing and frail insecurity which often plague me after one of her verbal snits. Perhaps because of the horror witnessed during the night. After that nightmarish vision of mine, a Sackville-Baggins pales by comparison.  
  
Since I make no rebuttal, Sam bristles and comes to my rescue. "Here, beggin' yer pardon, Ma'am, but my Master is one of the most gentlehobbits you ever could meet. He deserves better from the likes of you. 'Tis a shame your vindictiveness doesn't turn ye into a Troll."  
  
The barb is so like Sam, and such a sharply-honed parry, that I laugh out loud. Clearly an unexpected response, for Lobelia'a face smoothes out and she begins to look thoughtful. So I smile, dredging up the happiest events I can think of to feed the feeling, remembering Bilbo signing the papers to make my adoption official, coming to live at Bag End, learning to cook and learning to read Elvish, and my Uncle's lively chortle when he found something amusing. I remember it all, and smile widely, smile until it feels like my face is about to crumple, and this finally enrages Lobelia to the point of storming off in a huff.  
  
Sam scowls at her retreating back, cheeks flushed in uncharacteristic anger. "I can't abide her treatin' you so, Mr. Frodo. I don't know why you put up with it. That old stinker is as evil as one of them Barrow- rights, and that's a fact." His voice rises, wavering into a song. "Come never here again! Leave your barrow empty! Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness, Where gates stand forever shut, till the world is mended."  
  
One thing about living in the Shire is that everybody knows everybody else's business. I knew Sam had been busy visiting old Tom Bombadil, for the rhyme was certainly his. I shudder to think what most of the kind folk here will think about me after Lobelia or Otho have finished spreading this latest kerfuffle. I stare at Sam in all seriousness, my voice dropping to a peculiar whisper. "She's not evil, Sam," I say, my mind bleak with images from the nightmare. "Not truly. It would be wrong to hate her so."  
  
Sam's brow furrows, and his eyebrows climb neatly under his hair. "Well said, Frodo. But given to a large 'elping of hypocrisy, I'll wager."  
  
"Very well, you've cornered me. I admit saying a time or two that she behaved very unpleasantly-"  
  
"Mean-spirited an' selfish," Sam maintains, "cares for nothin' but 'erself is what you usually say. And petrifyin' enough to raise the hairs on a grown hobbit's foot."  
  
This seems to be the last word on the matter, for Sam pulls me near and we continue up the hill. By the time we reach Bag End, all I want to do is have a nice, long kip upon my wonderfully soft mattress and feather pillow, and not venture out until spring. Regrettably, I can't lie down in my bed, not as dirty as I am. Sam props me in a chair, and brings an old eiderdown he finds in the study, fashioning a nice cocoon for my foot. Before I know it, he's placing a bucket of water within my reach and leaving a fresh nightshirt beside me on the table.  
  
"Sit tight, Frodo. I'll be back with my mum straightaway."  
  
"Wherever would I go?" I start to ask, but he's gone, and I am sitting alone in my kitchen. I struggle out of my bloodied, mud-splattered shirt, carefully leaning down to clean my wound-it has finally stopped leaking fluid, but when I begin to gently scrub at the dirt ground under the excoriated pieces of skin, the pain flares anew. Perhaps not quite as badly as the first time, though still enough to make me gasp, my teeth snapping together as I nearly bite my tongue. Fresh tears scour my eyes, and I hastily blink them away before they can fall, determined not to cry like a tiddler in front of Mrs. Gamgee. I can feel sweat beginning to drip down the sides of my face when I finally jerk my hand out of the bucket, the room slowly spinning, and morning has become a fog-shrouded gray mist. I blink hard, straightening hastily to be able to drag in several deep breaths.  
  
After the dizziness abates, I find myself staring blankly into the water, watching the swirling eddies gradually flow into stillness. I am captivated by the darkening tinge that grows beneath the surface. My blood, I see, for the wound has reopened. Fleetingly I consider how I am to have a bath without creating more of a mess.  
  
"Frodo?"  
  
I at first believe it is Sam's voice, and I listen astutely for the sound of his step in the hall, but there is nothing, nothing save the sudden wheezing of my breath and the lurching fear which sends my pulse as high as one of Gandalf's fireworks.  
  
"Baggins."  
  
I whip my head back and forth, my eyes searching for the thing which assuages me so, again discovering there is no real specter to behold. The voice is inside my head. But how can this be?, I wonder, bewildered. I do not think of this myself. It comes of its own power. Dread spurs a sour taste in the back of my mouth, and I stifle a sob, acutely aware of my nakedness, of how vulnerable I am sitting here alone, not knowing from which direction danger lies.  
  
In spite of my fright, I stubbornly determine it will not take me without a fight. I shall resist this demon by whatever means I can. I snatch the clean nightshirt from the table, yanking it over my head, struggling to fit my arms through the sleeves. My movements become more frantic when I can't seem to easily manage this chore, thrashing about as I drown in a sea of material. Seams part with a sundering rip as I push my right hand through the last catch, and it leaves behind a trail of splotchy stains from my bleeding finger. My glance is lured to the scarlet stream, and I stare as the warm stickiness saturates my sleeve so it clings wetly to my arm.  
  
More blood.it will never come out. Ingrained a permanent reminder of this day. 'O bless me, what am I thinking? My resolve is already faltering. This is the problem, I cannot think at all, quavering and trembling with a nameless terror that calls out to me. It started with the dream, those horrible visions with the Orcs. And Bilbo's ring.the one he left to me, it is also connected to these fiendish images. Surely my uncle would not have given me something that has the power to cause me harm. Would he?  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A/N: I have little knowledge of fabrics and foods and such, whether they are a part of Middle-Earth or the New World. My apologies if I've made any boo-boos. Oh, and the song Sam does is copyrighted to Tolkien. 


	3. Chapter Three: Dare and Endure

AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
Chapter Three: Dare and Endure  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness  
  
Genre: Angst, horror  
  
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire  
  
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1  
  
POV: Frodo  
  
A/N: Heads up to Ariel for catching me on a wee canon error. It is what comes when you've only read the books once, and very fast at that. Alas, I know the movie-verse better. Plan to eventually do a trilogy re-read at a much more leisurely pace, as I am still somewhat overwhelmed by the Tolkien universe. So, for some unknown reason, I thought the hobbits met Tom Bombadil while still in the Shire, and thus knew of him. But as Ariel pointed out, they had left it behind, so Sam wouldn't have been able to quote him in song. Ah well, my mistake. One thing I definitely can't write is song or rhyming lyrics. I tend to write fanfic as an expression of my enthusiasm for a subject. To those few readers who take the time to write reviews, my thanks. I, myself, have been wading through all the wonderful stories out there, but have not found the time to do any feedback as yet. So here is a brief list of authors I aspire to: Elwen, FBOBE, Budgie-lover, Claudia, Ariel, and WillowWode. I'm sure there are more on my list, I just can't recall at the moment. You guys are superb! Keep up with the great stories!  
  
This is no time for ease and comfort. It is the time to dare and endure.  
  
~Winston Churchill  
  
"You cannot resist, little one."  
  
The voices, so quiet moments ago, speak to me again, and the words resound in my head, sending me scuttling out of the chair to claw at the table's edge for support as I try to keep any weight from my right foot. No matter how much bravado I am convinced I summon, the simple fact of the matter is that I am frightened beyond reason. Not since my parents died have I experienced this level of suffering. It is a pain which tears at my very soul, threatening to drown me in darkness. While I sense this evil, I do not fully understand it. Bilbo's ring.how could such a trivial gold trinket be responsible for such madness?  
  
"Frodo Baggins, you are meant to wear the Ring. It is as you are destined, my precious halfling."  
  
A violent shudder runs through me. "Please, do not continue this torment," I beg, not quite certain of whom I am addressing. The air around me stagnates in a thick and stifling mire, and I am unable to shake the eerie feeling I am being watched.  
  
"If you put on the Ring, your pain will cease," the voice whispers, a trap reeking of false promise and seduction. I am only beginning to realize what evil will befall me should I be lulled into quiescence.  
  
"Bilbo tried to resist."  
  
"He did not merely try, he succeeded," I snap crossly, staggering from the table in a painful shuffle, my endurance waning as I reach the doorway. I nearly sag to the floor, saved only by one of Bilbo's forgotten walking staffs. I clutch the gnarled wood in my left fist, swaying unsteadily, my right foot held up so I do not step with it. Just that brief sojourn has made it ache intensely, so much I almost forget the wound in my hand.  
  
"Frodo, my lad, what am I going to do with you?"  
  
"Bilbo," I say in a strangled tone, swallowing past a constricting dryness in my throat. It sounds so like him, in voice and cadence, that I hop a few steps closer to the front door, almost believing he has returned from his journey, that he has somehow sensed my turmoil and left his book and the Elves to come to my aid and help me fight this new enemy. But the foyer is empty. I am alone. My eyes are slowly drawn back to the kitchen, where light seems to shrink under a thick bank of grey clouds, a shadowy form coalescing from nothingness.  
  
"Frodo." I flinch when his voice cracks like a whip in the silence. "I left you the ring because Gandalf demanded it. Otherwise, I should never have parted with it. Certainly not to a sniveling, wingy brat as the likes of you. I never wanted you, you know. Worthless runt always following me about, messing with my belongings, pinching a few baubles when you thought I wasn't looking."  
  
"I have taken nothing!" I shout, the accusations a poison spreading in my thoughts, and though false, they still have the power to flay me raw. "I am no common thief, and y-you.you are certainly not my uncle!" I feel my lower lip start to quiver, and I bite down hard to make it stop, my chest pulling tighter with every breath. Before I can move or think, a great, fiery eye fills my vision. Red and black.flame and malevolence.it is all I sense as day becomes night.  
  
"In the end, you will fall, Halfling."  
  
Tears gather in my eyes, and I force myself not to blink. I cannot listen anymore. I won't! Thus far, these voices have made me hear their bane, but they have not controlled me. I may quail like a timorous mouse in their presence, but my will remains my own. If I were to wear this ring, would I keep my mind, or would I fall into a bottomless chasm of darkness? Bilbo had the ring for such a long time, and he never spoke of it with me. Did it whisper foul purpose to him as it does to me? Uncle always seemed to be quite well, as far as I can recall. Except at the last, right before his party. When he grew so obsessed with his maps and his book, locking himself away in his study, barely eating.  
  
Then Gandalf arrived, and he and Bilbo departed on the same night. And the ring was bequeathed to me for safe keeping. Gandalf told me never to put it on, but he didn't tell me why. If there is such peril associated with the ring, why did they not warn me? Why did they leave me in the dark to face this shadow alone?  
  
The answer I receive is a sharp whack across my forehead, knocking me to the floor and stealing my vision, until everything is black as night once more. A clarion panic swells beneath my breast, producing a shrill cry from my lips before I'm aware I've drawn so deep a breath. They have found me, it is a secret no longer.  
  
"Frodo, it's me, it's your Sam!" avows a sturdy, friendly voice.  
  
Sam, my mind echoes in blessed relief. Briefly, I am content to bask in the notion that I am safe. Soon, however, embarrassment seeps a mortified heat from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. My lack of control is appalling. I do not have the courage to face my friend, so I turn my face away, eyes tightly shut.  
  
"Frodo?"  
  
Sam nudges my shoulder, and I blink fuzzily at him, the image of what I see slowly resolving into a worried pair of brown eyes and a pair of hobbit feet barely a hairsbreadth from my nose. I glimpse a great deal of exposed shin, and frown in puzzlement. "Sam, why is your mum wearing breeches?" is the inane query which rolls off my tongue.  
  
A rowdy guffaw booms in the hall above my head, and I hear the Gaffer exclaim, "Lor bless, if this ain't the first time I been mistaken for my missus."  
  
I must look completely bollixed, for Sam jumps in to explain, "My mum took leave to go to town while I was in here tendin' to you, Mr. Frodo, so I brought my da' instead. Good thing, too, seein' as how you didn't stay put like I told you."  
  
Sam helps me to sit up, then his gaffer gathers me into his arms as though I weighed nothing more than a feather pillow. He deposits me back in the kitchen chair, where I squint at his retreating form, seeing not one image but two. "Can you stitch, Gaffer?" I wonder aloud, blinking hard. It is to no avail, my sight is not clearing much. I shut my eyes, but find this is worse as it makes me dreadfully sick to my stomach.  
  
The Gaffer has taken my wounded hand, and I detect a slight hitch in his breathing while he studies it. "Aye, I can stitch flesh, if that's what yer askin', Master Frodo. Done it a few times in the past, I have. If yer wantin' a nice new coat, then that's another matter."  
  
He touches my cut, and I cringe, throwing my back against the raised slats of the chair, my breath leaving my lips in a hiss of pain. There's a warm hand squeezing my shoulder from behind-Sam, offering silent encouragement. It is then I become aware the voices have fallen silent. Perhaps they do not wish to speak when others are present. I am both relieved and puzzled by their sudden absence; there seems to be no pattern to their comings and goings.  
  
My hand is released, and I sigh faintly, drawing it protectively to my lap. A general clatter of stoneware ensues, followed by the sloshing of liquid. Soon, a mug is pressed into my left hand. "'Ere, drink this," the Gaffer instructs me, and I sniff the contents, detecting the fragrant odor of grapes. "It's wine from last year's crop. Go on, drink up, lad, then we'll get started."  
  
"But I am not thirsty," I begin to protest, before his intention gleans clear. I actually am thirsty, just not for fermented spirits. "You intend to get me stinking drunk," I manage to mumble with some indignation.  
  
"'Tis necessary, you dull the feelin' in yer hand by dullin' the mind first. So you won't 'urt so much when I rinse that wound out."  
  
My hand is aching more fiercely than ever, and I am dreading what is to come. "I already cleansed the cut in water. Is that not sufficient?"  
  
"Water's good, but wine's better, Master Frodo."  
  
Tearing my gaze from my lap, I slowly lift my head. It is gratifying to have my vision restored to a singular focus, though I now have a headache to add to my list of other hurts. "Then, after I am very." I struggle to find a word. ".happy, you will stitch the wound closed?"  
  
There is a lengthy pause, during which I find I am holding my breath. Exhaling nervously, I wait as the Gaffer levels a shrewd glance in my direction. "No, cut's too deep for silk and needlework, I reckon. Old Berel Upton, remember 'im? Stepped on a broken shard after a night of revelry at the Green Dragon, an' sliced his foot clean open from toe to heel. Never seen a sole so torn-a right, messy thing. Anyhow, they sewed his foot shut, an' a couple of days later, a fever caught 'im, an' the foot swelled up twice its size, oozin' this green-yellow pustilence, an' it stank somethin' awful." I stiffen, staring at my hand in despair. The Gaffer has turned, and is busy stoking the fire to bring a kettle to boil. "It got so bad, 'is toes turned black and rotted off, and they had to take the leg to save 'is life."  
  
My body is tensed as if to do battle, and I fight the rising urge to vomit. My eyesight darkens around the edges. I am stricken with a stark fear, this one all too real. "You m-mean.I am to.I might l-lose my h-hand?" I wail, scrunching up my face and slowly leaning forward to pillow my head on my knees. I concentrate on breathing, willing my stomach not to upend itself. I mustn't get sick, I tell myself resolutely, not in front of Sam and his Gaffer.  
  
"Now, lad, don't ye be puttin' yer cart before the horse. That woe ain't been given yet. While I'm no healer, I know my plants, an' I know what stops thy bones from achin'. And one thing'll be certain-the longer ye leave that cut untended, the greater chance somethin' foul will sprout from within. That cut 'as to heal from the inside out to knit well and whole."  
  
The Gaffer's voice resonates a heady reassurance, clearly meant to settle my alarm. Why then do I not feel soothed? There is a sense of disconnected stupor enveloping me, distancing me from my body like a sleep- borne dream. The sights and smells of the kitchen fade, and I hear myself repeat in a broken whisper, "Well and whole."  
  
Without warning, brilliance and heat converge to blind me, to the extent I see only those red, bulbous eyes massed above. I am not restrained as before, and I scramble on hands and knees in an attempt to flee, frantic to escape before they hurt me again. "I must go," I say, "must find it.too long already." Forward progress is tediously slow, my limbs trembling and so very heavy. Weakness pitches me face-first onto the mortared stone floor, and I begin to crawl, a feeble effort thwarted by a fierce grip around my neck.  
  
"Be gone, you filthy, stinkin' worm-rat!" My head is yanked up, foul breath tickling my cheek and trilling my insides with horror. "Make haste! Afore us change our minds, an' me and the lads rustle up some more fun!"  
  
I cower mutely where I have fallen, too terrified to move. Teeth chattering as another fiendish cackle shatters in my ears. "Hai, crawl in the dross like the vile creature you are. Perhaps this'll persuade your miserable hide!"  
  
Flame is pressed to my bare hip, an ever-present devouring scourge. I find I have not forgotten how to scream. Claws snag my head, tangling within my hair to arch my neck into an almost impossible angle, their intent to force my jaw to part. I struggle, but it is a lost cause, the strain is too great. My lips part involuntarily, and they pour a burning liquid down my throat. It sears the delicate tissue so when I swallow, I cough and choke, tears springing to my eyes as I gasp for air. I look up into the face of madness. Orcs, too many to count, circle above me. Their eyes gleam with a hungry yearning, spittle glistening on yellowed teeth under the flicker of firelight. One of them grabs me by the ankle, and I squeal with newfound terror.  
  
I come back to myself with a yell, fear given vexation through my voice as it leaves my throat in a shrill, reedy cry. I am stretched upon my back, arms pinned above my head, and for a moment I see their faces again, feel those terrible claws creeping up my flesh, sharp pricks delving into my skin as fingers scrape in ascending violation along my thigh. I buck wildly against the weight holding me, screaming for all I am worth, until my chaotic thoughts register the fact that the hands encompassing my wrists are warm and of flesh, their grip falling just short of being painful.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, wake up, wake up! It's Sam here, I've got ye, ain't no one goin' to 'urt you, I promise!"  
  
"Sam?" I whisper, my voice cracking as I say his name. I am afraid to open my eyes, afraid this familiar, kind touch will not be real. "Is it truly you?"  
  
"It is, it's your silly old Sam." His words tumble out in a rush, and I realize he is as frightened as I am. "You nodded off into some 'orrible kind of dream, and I was afraid." He trails off uncertainly, and I try for a smile, but from the stiff feel of my face, I don't think I quite manage it. I force my eyes open, my vision spotty and sluggish at first, until finally I can see Sam leaning over me, his pale features drawn and worried, one of his hands still locked around my left wrist. The Gaffer is still and silent in the kitchen doorway, and I am sprawled on the floor near the hearth with no memory of how I came to be here.  
  
My glance drifts upon the mantle rising overhead, and the reason I have fled here becomes apparent. I blanch, knowing it is not by accident. Twisting sideways, I can discern the vague outline of the soot-covered parchment resting innocuously against the base of the chimney. A longing ache nags at my mind, and I wrench my eyes back to Sam, an anguished sob damned up in my throat.  
  
"Sam." My mouth is so dry I can barely speak, my heart a thundering echo in my ears. I shudder, feeling a telling wetness clinging to my lashes. I want to cry, I need that release, to forget the fear and doubt and loneliness that tear at me more deeply with each passing day. But I find the tears will not fall. I blink and turn in desperation to Sam, pouring every bit of will I possess into keeping my voice steady. "Please, help me, help me to keep them quiet."  
  
To Be Continued. 


	4. Chapter Four: Between Two Evils

AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
Chapter Four: Between Two Evils  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness  
  
Genre: Angst, horror  
  
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire  
  
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1  
  
POV: Frodo  
  
Between two evils, choose neither; between two goods, choose both.  
  
~Tryon Edwards  
  
"Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but keep who quiet? There's no one 'ere 'cept me and my da'."  
  
Sam releases my arm and settles onto his knees beside me, his eyes wide and anxious, a tiny furrow deepening the line between his sandy brows. With a heavy heart, I realize I can say nothing further in the matter of the voices. If I do not comprehend their true purpose, how can I make such a demand of Sam? My decision, once made, stands firm-until I have the answers I seek, I must remain silent.  
  
Despite my resolve, a dejected sigh works its way past my lips. I close my eyes, every bruise and cut I have merging into a continuous, throbbing ache. I try to muster my strength to face what is coming, but a great weariness has overtaken my body so that even just breathing seems a daunting chore.  
  
"Frodo?" In the utterance of my name, I hear Sam's disquiet, his worry an almost palpable force stirring the air between us. It takes great effort to force my eyes open; managing that, I coax a fleeting smile from my mouth.  
  
"It's alright, I am just very tired," I explain, "and I got very little rest last night. The cold and the hard ground are not courteous bedfellows."  
  
Sam's relief is plain, written upon his face in a shy, buoyant smile. He nods emphatic agreement. "Aye, I can't imagine sleepin' out of doors."  
  
I sense movement at the outer fringes of my vision. It is the Gaffer turning back into the kitchen to attend the kettle. How I wish 'twas merely for a cup of tea, and that I could remain where I am. But the floor is growing uncomfortable, and my hurts are beginning to arduously complain again. This unpleasant task cannot be put off any longer. "Sam, though it pains me, I should have you help me return to the table," I announce. Clever me, it leaves my tongue without a stutter or the keening shrillness I so despise.  
  
"Right away, sir! You can lean on me, if ya like." Sam went to grasp my good arm, threading his other beneath my waist to lift me from the floor, taking care not to jostle me too much. Balancing me on one foot was accomplished in a slow, careful arrangement of limbs, Sam's caution in moving me a telling tale-he obviously thinks I might shatter on the spot. After hopping into the kitchen, and having every step bludgeon its way from my foot to the top of my head, I am inclined to agree. There are so many injured parts of me demanding attention, I can barely sort them all out.  
  
Sinking onto the chair, I draw an unsteady breath and arrange my arm on the tabletop, letting my hand fall open. As usual, I can't help but fixate on the wound, which appears no less grievous now that the bleeding has stopped. A darkening expanse of cyan scores my palm from finger to wrist, the digit itself so swollen I could not bend it even if I desired to. Reddish-black globs of congealed blood and torn skin run the length of the cut, once oozing a ruddy discharge of fluid, but now crusted and thickened into a clotted amalgam. It remains a repulsive sight, prompting me to search quickly for a distraction.  
  
Sam evidently reads something amiss in my expression, and assumes the role optimistic advocate. "Don't worry, Frodo, my gaffer will set things right." He slides a mug in front of me. "Better finish yer wine."  
  
I feel tension ripple across my face, my jaw going taut as the words strike a disturbing chord within me. My gaze inevitably strays to the fireplace and the Gaffer's stooped form, then refocuses on the half-empty cup I do not recall drinking from. I am almost afraid to ask. "What is he doing?"  
  
"Preparin' a compress of Melissa water. I used it for a toothache once, and it cured it right up." I purse my lips and angle him a wary glance, thinking this is not a reassuring comparison. He smiles, and lowers his eyes a fraction. "It's good for treatin' hurts both outside and in."  
  
I grab the mug and have taken a generous mouthful when Sam adds matter-of- factly, "'Elps procure women's courses, too." Sputtering, I nearly choke and spew wine all over the table, only managing to swallow at the very last instant so my dignity is preserved. "Whyever did you tell me that?" I gasp. "I do not wish to know such things!" Giving me a wily smile, Sam merely shrugs. "Thought it might interest you. Lately, you've been askin' about all the plants an' 'erbs we grow in the garden and what not. Never know when the littlest detail might come in useful. Maybe if you were ta find a nice hobbit lass, perhaps."  
  
"You're one to talk," I chide, laughing. It bubbles from my mouth as more of a throaty chuckle than a deep, belly chortle. Still, it serves its purpose. I feel a bit of the unease leech from my expression. "And I have a reputation to uphold in the cracked tradition we Bagginses endure from the neighborhood, remember?"  
  
My attention remains centered on Sam while I try to focus on the old joke shared between us, instead of how my hand is being lifted and positioned upon a cotton-wool pallet. Fingers twitching, I have to force myself not to pull away. A few hasty gulps finishes off the wine, and I am left with a pleasant warmth pervading my belly, the giddiness spreading outward in a deliciously slow wave until everything in the room appears a bit off. Slightly out of focus, so the walls slant at odd angles. Despite this haze, my first impulse is to watch the torture about to be inflicted on my flesh. Except Sam has a different agenda.  
  
Now seated beside me, his hand is firm where it curls around my forearm, steadying my elbow against the table. "I don't want you to pay any mind to what my gaffer is doin', Mr. Frodo. You just look at me, and I'll 'elp you through this."  
  
"Tell me a story," I blurt, fighting not to squirm. My head feels light and muzzy; even so, I do not think I can bear this burden stoically with only silence for company. "Anything that comes to mind."  
  
Sam's eyes flicker in confusion. "A story? Like one of Mr. Bilbo's tales? But you already know 'em all from start to finish, I'll wager. An' probably speak a fairer rendition than me, besides."  
  
The Gaffer touches me lightly on the wrist. I jump nervously at the contact, my gaze jerking sideways to connect with his face. His expression softens, his look not as stern. "Now, young master, take heart, for I know this lump is what ya been dreadin'. You'll be the better for it, I promise. Just try to relax an' listen to my Samwise, that way I can make yer graft pass as quick as possible."  
  
I snap my eyes back to Sam. "Just talk," I plead huskily. "I want it to be your voice I hear, instead of an idiotic clanger with me yelling my head off."  
  
Looking skeptical, Sam nods nevertheless. He licks his lips, beginning rather hesitantly, "Alright, I reckon you know best, Mr. Frodo. Let's see now.what shall I tell? Oh, I've got it! This is a tale of the land beyond the Misty Mountains, where Bilbo traveled with Gandalf and the dwarves. Through great halls of enormous trees, beech an' oak, that stretched on and on as far as the eye could see."  
  
I shut my eyes and let Sam's voice lead me into distant lands, far from Bag End and my current troubles. Much as it had been with Uncle one Yule, nursing me through an awful bout of chills and fever.  
  
"Leaves from countless autumns past covered their path in a carpet of crackling decay, the only sound made aside from their footsteps bein' the wind and everyone's tired, dreary-laden breaths. They was so hungry their stomachs felt all 'ollow an' twisted inside, 'til it pained a body gone so long without eatin'. No water was near, and Bilbo and Thorin an' the rest could barely swallow, their throats was parched that much."  
  
Lulled by softly spoken words, I am no longer prepared for the hot deluge of liquid suddenly scouring the cut on my hand. My eyes fly open, and I swallow back my cry of pain as the Gaffer works to rinse the wound, but when he starts to knead and loosen the clots, pulling apart edges of barely- mended skin, a sound works its way from deep in my throat, dragging over my lips in a whimpering moan. I think I would have bolted to my feet had Sam not kept a restraining hold on my wrist. More wine, and just as in my dream, I cannot escape the burning. My chin sinks to my chest, and I exhale in shudder-quickened wheezes, thus caught up in my pain until my lungs seem to hunger for air faster than I can draw it. I throw my head back in panic, gasping harder.  
  
"Easy, lad, don't go puffin' so fast an' shallow," cautions the Gaffer, ceasing his ministrations while I attempt to collect my scattered wits. I try, I really try, but my voice rises, as does my agitation. There is something here relishing my failing. Watching through walls and flesh, an evil darkness baying outside the window, waiting for me to open the door.  
  
"Sam.I can't stop it! Hold my hand!." A dark flutter of invisible wings beats against my head and chest, I feel almost as if I am falling. The plea I've just uttered makes me go very still, and the breath whistles shrilly in my throat again, the words evoking a sense of my having said them before. Lost in a dream, a malevolent portent summoned from the past to wield destruction in the present. "Sam," I say in a strangled voice, "help me. Don't let me go alone."  
  
Sam looks faintly alarmed, a frown deeply etched on his forehead. "Go alone to where exactly, Frodo?"  
  
Tension coils through me, the last vestiges of my strength plummeting like a stone to the ground below. I suddenly have no idea what I just said, or why I spoke thusly. I am so very weary with weakness, and want nothing more than to lie down in my bed. It is hot, and I sweat profusely, the salty tracks mingling with a few fallen tears to sting my cheeks as they roll down my face. Will this never end, I wonder?  
  
"Frodo?"  
  
My head is lolling on Sam's shoulder, providing a warm pillow for my dampened cheek. I notice his fingers are clenched rather tightly over my arm, but it makes the pain lessen, for which I am grateful. The Gaffer is busy, applying a hot compress to my finger. Using a lighter touch than before, yet it is still not easy to bear. My breath hitches in discomfort. I have regained a fragile thread of control, so it is not so labored. "Just talk, Sam," I whisper, burying my face in his shirt. With a deep sigh, my eyes flutter closed. "Don't s-stop.please. Keep going.tell me more-" I swallow thickly. "-more of Bilbo's adventures."  
  
"If you're sure that's truly what you want," Sam answers quietly. "My gaffer has to soak yer hand for a bit, then prepare some Comfrey so he can bind up the cut. Are ya certain to want to listen ta me yammer on for so long?"  
  
"Yes," I nod, my chin scratching over a button before I settle in, my ear flush against his chest. I can hear the stalwart beating of his heart, a steady counterpoint to my own.  
  
"Well." Sam dutifully begins, ".Bein' the journey had made everyone bone-tired an' feeble with hunger and thirst, the group of travelers were heartened by the appearance of twinklin' red lights in the distance. It looked right invitin', though they'd been warned of strange 'appenings in the forest. An' when they reached the spot where those lights blazed bright, the night snuffed everythin' out, an' left 'em scurryin' about in the darkness. Right then, the dwarves should've known there was no warm cookin' fire or feast to be had, but torches suddenly lit again like magic, a ghostly song an' harp playin' sweet, fair music to all. So when the second gloom filled the wood, Bilbo found he couldn't see a one of his companions, an' he ran about shoutin' an' callin' out, only nobody answered. He was so perished, he laid out right there an' had a little kip. 'An when he woke, there was sittin' a great, big, fat spider waitin' to eat 'im."  
  
Though I had heard it many times, this image trilled a cold shudder down my spine, making my stomach churn queasily. Not the distraction I had hoped for. Bilbo's time spent with Gandalf and Thorin and the dwarves, tales ripe with peril and excitement, had always held a special fascination for me. Especially the part where Uncle used his Elvish dagger to single- handedly fight off a horde of angry spiders poised to eat them all down to bones. Now, hearing my dearest friend wonderfully render the tale, I do not await every verse with mounting enthusiasm, I only feel dreadfully ill. The brief respite given by the wine has faded. Tears of exhaustion and pain squeeze past my eyelids and continue to drip down my face, but I don't want Sam to see, so I stubbornly refuse to heed the despondent sobs longing to escape my lips.  
  
"Sam?" My cursed squeak of a voice gives me away. One only has to listen to a lone syllable to know my distress. "Can we talk of something else?"  
  
He stiffens slightly in protest. "But you asked me ta tell you of Bilbo's journey beyond the Mountain."  
  
"I know." I huddle against his shoulder, his warmth a comfort opposing all I had bottled up inside. Sam will understand, he will know what to do. What it is I seek so desperately. "Could you explain about your garden instead?"  
  
There is a long pause, where all I hear is his breathing. Then he sighs, and says in gentle tones, "O' course, all ye have to do is ask."  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A/N: FYI, I will never write slash, so this is hurt/comfort all the way. Also, the journey of Bilbo and the dwarves is copyrighted to JRR Tolkien, just borrowing it for show and tell. And if anyone noticed, there are a few lines from ROTK, those also belong to Tolkien, used for a bit more of foreshadowing that I've been doing with Frodo. 


	5. Chapter Five: Fear's Direction

AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
Chapter Five: Fear's Direction  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness  
  
Genre: Angst, horror, h/c  
  
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1  
  
POV: Frodo  
  
A/N: Many thanks to Ariel, for continuing to review my story. I guess when I think about it, my story is three parts movie-verse and one part book- canon. Certainly, when I picture the characters and "hear" their voices, it is movie-verse. But your comment did start me thinking more in depth, and I have decided to sort of have Sam and Frodo's relationship here reflect the employer/employee concept of TFOTR, but be growing to a deeper friendship as chapters progress. Sam is key here in helping Frodo through what happens, again foreshadowing. I'd planned this piece to be a big-FS drabble anyway. So consider that line "my dearest friend" to read merely "Sam." Hope you enjoy this next installment.  
  
We must travel in the direction of our fear.  
  
~John Berryman  
  
Thank Elbereth, I am finally back in my bed! Lying between clean sheets, attired in a crisp, fresh nightshirt, my sores tended and bound. Waiting for sleep to claim me, my eyes heavy and stinging with weariness. But now that I am here, I am completely and thoroughly wide awake. Fidgeting, I slouch deeper into the mound of pillows behind my back, foot propped comfortably upon a roll of blankets. It does not pain me much. However, my hand continues to throb regardless of what position I am in, and nothing takes my mind from it. I keep my fingers still and clasped to my chest.  
  
Sam enters the room carrying a cup of tea. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, so I gather I no longer look desperately ill and wretched. "Here you are, Mr. Frodo. 'Tis the brew I promised ya. I prepared it just like the Gaffer told me. It should 'elp ye ta relax."  
  
I awkwardly take the handle with my left hand, but my grip is unsure and rather weak. Sam has to help me so I don't spill any. I sip it slowly, expecting something hot, but when I swallow it is only barely warm, and the taste.it nearly brings tears to my eyes. "It's rather tart," I murmur around a cough.  
  
"Aye, that's the infusion. 'As to be concentrated to do the job."  
  
I down a few more swallows, wrinkling my nose. "It tastes as if you've pressed an entire bushel of apples to make just one cup of tea," I complain.  
  
Sam shrugs. "It could be worse," he suggests apologetically. "Remember that awful concoction Bilbo made you take for a cough and fever two winters ago, an' how it gave you a 'orrible rash when you ventured outside?"  
  
I nod, drinking as much as I can before pushing the cup toward Sam. A faint tremor runs the length of my arm. Sam averts his eyes, and pretends not to notice. "You're right," I sigh. "I suppose things always seem worse than they actually are." My thoughts turn in unpleasant directions, stirring dark memories I should not like to be reminded of. "Most of the time," I conclude softly, cradling my right hand with my left.  
  
Sam appears reluctant to leave me alone. How much trouble can I possibly create for myself just lying here in bed? I sigh once more, something I am doing a lot of this day. "I'm sorry you have to be stuck inside looking after me, instead of attending to your other duties. You'll probably have twice as many chores to do by the time I'm on my feet again."  
  
"This late in the season, I reckon the garden can survive without me for a few days. An' if yer ankle is ta heal properly, you can't be bearin' any weight with it." This is accompanied by a stern look, and I try to seem duly warned. "Someone's got ta keep an eye on you, an' my gaffer's needed at the inn. That just leaves me, unless ya want to send for somebody else. My da' is to stop by every mornin' to check that wound, but if you'd rather have Merry or Pippin here with ya, I can send Lotho to fetch them."  
  
I cringe, and declare, "You shall do no such errand!"  
  
Sam shakes his head. "He'll likely show up to gloat once he's heard the news."  
  
"Then it will be your duty to keep him out," I say with utmost seriousness. I can't help but smile when I add, "And Pippin jumping up and down on my bed does not promote the atmosphere of rest and recuperation in my mind. I look forward to your company, Sam."  
  
He beams at this, a rising flush staining his cheeks. "Rightly so, Mr. Frodo. I'll be in the kitchen preparin' us a nice lunch, should ya need anything. Just shout, an' I'll come runnin'."  
  
I am left staring at the ceiling, wondering how food will sit in my nervous, churning stomach. The next thing I know, the room has grown dim, and I'm cocooned under a hoard of quilts. Sam's doing, most likely, he's taking this new role as my protector to heart. The room is chilly, but I am sweating under this many layers. I fight my way out, scattering pillows and coverlets, scooting to the edge of the mattress and plunking me feet down, before a nagging twinge from my right ankle reminds me of the injury, and the many reasons not to try and walk.  
  
My hand brushes the walking stick. It is just where I left it beside the bed. Standing takes more effort, but I manage it by moving slowly and taking care not to strain any more muscles. I hurt quite enough with what I've done to myself thus far, no need to add a few more bumps or bruises to the collection. My stomach growls loudly, making its first complaint since this whole mess started. I gather I have missed lunch, dinner, perhaps even supper, for I have no idea what the time is. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and I think I hear movement.  
  
"Sam?" Good gracious, is that my voice? It sounds so appallingly weak. I swallow, and try again. "Sam, is that you?"  
  
"Frodo."  
  
That is not Sam. I jerk reflexively, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. "Sam!!!" I am yelling now, sounding truly wretched, my throat feeling like so much raw meat. "Sam, where are you?" I lace my fingers around the staff to prevent them from twitching. The voice.why is it waiting? Why does it not speak further?  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" The door springs open, and Sam bursts into the room. "What's the matter? Are ya 'urt?"  
  
I am scared and angry, and it all spills out in a flood of accusation in what remains of my tattered voice. "Why did you not come sooner? Did you not hear me calling?"  
  
"No." Sam frowns, reconsidering. "Well, yes, just now.is that what yer referrin' to?"  
  
Is that what I mean? Is he really Sam? I anxiously scan his face- his expression is too earnest, too eager to help. It does not ring false. "Yes," I groan, "I guess so. I must have been dreaming." I flop back on the bed, my eyes listlessly following Sam as he goes around the room lighting torches. I rub the welt on my forehead, wincing. "What is the time, anyway?"  
  
"Half past three. If yer hungry, I can reheat the nice stew I made."  
  
I sit up, my lips parting in shock. 'Twas much earlier than I expected. I'd been asleep barely an hour, two at the most. No wonder I feel so completely drained. My chin sinks to my chest, and I murmur, "I'm not hungry."  
  
Sam places his hand on my knee, crouching down so he can peer directly into my eyes. "You really ought to eat somethin', Mr. Frodo. Yer lookin' awfully pale. If ya starve yerself, you'll only wind up getting sicker."  
  
He is right. I need to eat to keep up my strength. There is a more pressing urgency I must address first, however. I reach for my walking stick. Sam eyes me suspiciously, a 'Where do ya think yer goin'?' admonishment poised on the tip of his tongue. "Yes," I say, resigning myself to the inevitable.  
  
He frowns a little. "Yes, what?"  
  
"I know."  
  
His frown deepens, appearing almost comical. "But I've not said anything yet."  
  
"You don't have to, Sam. It's written all over your face." I smile patiently, smothering a laugh. "I need to use the privvy, but I promise to come straight back here, prop my ankle on its nice riser of feather pillows, and eat whatever you place before me."  
  
Still somewhat reluctant-confused, no doubt, by my ranting-Sam eventually nods. "Well said, Mr. Frodo. I couldn't o' put it better myself."  
  
"Frodo.hear me, little one."  
  
"Sam?" I mumble groggily, sleep lying heavily on my eyelids. It takes a good deal of effort to pry them open. My lashes feel sticky, caked with a dry crust that doesn't easily come off. "Is it morning already?"  
  
I blink, but it is so dark, it makes no difference whether my eyes are open or closed. Every torch has burned out, and the room is cold and black. I ease to the edge of the bed, dangling my legs over the side. My ankle immediately starts to throb, and I grit my teeth. A host of other aches register as I fully wake-a circle of tension stabbing between my shoulders, the muscles in my neck stiff and sore so I have difficulty turning my head. My head itself feels ready to pop from the grinding pressure damned behind my eyes. The one part of me not hurting at the moment is my finger, cradled protectively to my belly.  
  
I try to rise, but my left arm where it is braced upon the mattress is wobbling badly, and refuses to take my weight. I sit for awhile, becoming more apprehensive the longer I peer into the darkness. My breathing sounds unnaturally loud in the quietness night has brought to Bag End. I assume it is night-Sam has been careful to keep at least one candle burning, but perhaps he is resting.  
  
"Frodo."  
  
I start violently, nearly sliding off the bed. Panic sweeps away my control, and I shake my head in denial. "No, go away! Leave me alone!"  
  
The hushed tones continue, a siren tempting me to listen. "I know you hear me, Halfling. You are unable to deny me an audience."  
  
"I deny you everything!" I croak, sudden anger lending my voice potency. "I am the master of Bag End, and you have no right or authority here!" I wait, wishing my heart did not thunder in my ears so. At a time when I need to latch onto every sound, I can barely hear anything.  
  
I wait, keeping still, wary of what punishment will be inflicted for my outspokenness. A shadow flits in the doorway, and I tense, but there is Sam, holding a candle and wearing his dressing gown, "Did ya need anything, Mr. Frodo? I thought I 'eard ya call."  
  
"I'm alright, Sam." I take a deep breath, not really wanting to be alone, except I feel guilty about denying Sam his sleep. I sigh, and urge, "Go back to bed."  
  
"You'll get no argument from me." He yawns widely. "Well, you know where I'll be."  
  
I listen to his feet quietly padding down the hall, then let out the breath I've been holding. I sit there, searching for peace or solace somewhere in the dark, but there is no succor to be found, no scholarly advice on how to fight this demon, no telling of how my journey might be forged. Sinking back to my pillow, I hug my arms to my chest, feeling very lost and afraid. For a long time, I am rigid with worry, fearing the return of the voices. When Sam gets up to fix breakfast, I am lying with my back to the door so he will think I am still asleep. But I have not slept. My eyes are grainy like I've rubbed dirt under my lids, they burn when I blink. I ache all over, and feel miserably sick to my stomach. I decide to remain in my bed the rest of the day. Perhaps my luck will change, and I will be able to fall asleep again. But I am neither relaxed, nor encouraged. Shuddering, I dwell upon the thought of how bad things will become before they get better.  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A/N: For those still reading, beware the coming chapter. The story is about to go dark side. 


	6. Chapter Six: Out of Mind

AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
Chapter Six: Out Of Mind  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings  
  
Rating: R for allusions of sexual violence and graphic imagery, this one's darker, proceed with caution. THE RATING FOR THIS CHAPTER IS DIFFERENT THAN PREVIOUS ONES. Please don't read if this might be disturbing to you.  
  
Genre: Angst, horror  
  
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire  
  
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1  
  
POV: Frodo  
  
A/N: I wrote this chapter before the previous one, and before I saw TTT. I've been feeling rather poorly of late (I have a chronic pain syndrome, and the crazy weather patterns of the Midwest and the stress from work have been taking their toll). As a result, this chapter is quite dark, has torture and sexual violence, which I had not planned exactly, but that is how the story unfolded. Thanks again to Ariel, who has been the only reader to diligently review all chapters. Your comments are appreciated.  
  
Is there no way out of the mind?  
  
~Sylvia Plath  
  
Two days pass, and I take to keeping long hours in the study, so terrified of hearing the voices I am determined not to close my eyes. Reading helps to occupy the time, but tonight I ache so badly I cannot concentrate. Retiring to my bedroom, I am almost asleep when I hear it. My name whispered in that low, menacing drawl. I do not wait for more, I abandon my bed and flee into the hall, dragging myself along with the staff.  
  
A hand reaches to claw a slithering rake between my shoulders. I whirl and scramble back with a frightened shout, hopping frantically on one foot, bumping against the wall where I can retreat no farther. Instead of a monstrous vision from my nightmares, I see it is only Sam. Still greatly upset, I cry, "What do you mean by sneaking around like a thief in the night?!" I try to catch my breath. My hands shake so much the crutch slips from my grasp. It falls to the floor with a loud clatter, causing us both to jump.  
  
"I heard footsteps treadin' softly in the hall," Sam protests, drawing a step closer to where I quake against the wall. "I though you were still in yer bed. That somebody 'twas here uninvited."  
  
"A staff and a hobbled foot make for quiet footfalls?" I echo derisively. When he frowns and leans in as if to touch me, I jerk away. "Don't fuss!" I snap. "Just leave me be!" In the flickering torchlight, I see Sam's eyes glisten a liquid amber, and feel a stab of guilt at my harsh tone.  
  
"I only was goin' ta check you for fever, Mr. Frodo," murmurs Sam, a slight catch in his voice. "Yer sweatin' somthin' awful, or hadn't ye noticed?"  
  
Now that Sam has called attention to it, I find my nightshirt is sodden and clinging to my chest and arms. I grimace, dismayed to discover my garment is not the only victim to this bleak disturbance. Pain convulses around my right hand, stealing away my breath. I see that somehow in my panic, I have managed to curl my fingers into a tightly clutched fist. I quickly release my hold, but the damage has already been done. Even in the dim light, I can tell my bandage is soaked not just with sweat, but fresh blood.  
  
Only this morning, Sam's gaffer had debrided my wound, slicing through scab and skin to reach the unhealed portion of tissue lying beneath. Every morning it has been the same, and every time it hurts just as badly as the last. And now I have torn the scabs loose again. Twice in one day, it is too much. I cannot face having my cut abased such tonight.  
  
My knees suddenly buckle, and I slide down the wall until my bottom hits the floor, my head slumping to rest upon my knees, knuckles grazing cool tile as my hands fall open at my sides. I feel brittle and terribly weak, like the slightest jarring could break me in two. I sniffle, nose beginning to run from the wash of tears brimming in my eyes. Too enervated to fight this any longer, I allow them to fall.  
  
"Frodo.Frodo." My name cackles like dead leaves blowing across an untended grave. The sound jerks my head up so fast, I hear my spine pop. ".do my bidding, and all you yearn for will be delivered."  
  
"NO." I glance frantically from side to side, eyes darting to search every corner and every shadow of Bilbo's favorite sitting-room, but there is nothing here, no one except Sam. Approved servant and gardener, now my friend, he will not desert me. "Stop this," I demand, "you must stop!"  
  
"Frodo, what's wrong?" Sam is staring at me, no doubt wishing he were somewhere else, but he remains beside me, steadfast.  
  
"Nothing." Spots dance before my sight, my back rigidly pressed to the paneling, carved wooden edges digging into my ribs. "It's n-nothing," I gasp, straining to breathe.  
  
"He cannot be trusted.your wealth is too tempting, he will betray you."  
  
"No, you're wrong!" I want to cover my ears, except my hands seem trapped by my side. "It's a lie. It is you who cannot be trusted!"  
  
"Little fool!" The voice swells with power, becoming a foul wind that shrieks across the arched ceiling above, snuffing out every light. "You think you are strong, that you possess the will to oppose me, Halfling?" There comes a laugh, evil and dark and sinister, like nothing I have ever heard before. "You are but a sack of bones to crush beneath my feet. Soon I shall rule them all, even the forgotten lands, the realms of men and elves, and yes, scrawny little hobbits.you all will be mine, to torment as I desire."  
  
I feel my blood run cold, body trembling in desperate fear. Unexpectedly, a slender thread of strength I didn't know I had cradles my terror, bringing a quiet to my tremors. "No, we will not."  
  
A growl of malice cracks above my head, raging anger striking out to curb my impudence. I was wrong. I lack the valor and endurance to wage this battle. I should have held my tongue. Why did I not run? My ankle.lameness damns me to this fate.  
  
"Stupid, stunted, pathetic creature," the voice hisses. Gandalf's voice. No, it can't be. "You have no idea of the languishment yet foretold. You will beg for death, and even that will not grant you release. Witness now but a taste of the fate you lay claim to."  
  
From far away, another voice tugs at my attention. "Frodo, say somethin'! Yer scarin' yer poor Sam. I don't know what to do!"  
  
My lips move, though no sound emerges. Bag End has fallen to darkly purpose. I cannot see anything at all. Only eyes.eyes glowing in the dark. No, not this, please. "Make it go away! Make him be silent" I shudder. "Please, Sam, take me from this place."  
  
I am caught, sharp, fierce claws delivering my dread to the accompaniment of squealing grunts and gnashing teeth. They sound like animals, and I crouch low, wishing to remain small and unnoticed. But a hideously large hand drags me up by my hair, pulling me kicking and screaming to a wooden rack, where every bit of clothing I wear is ripped away. I am thrown on my back with such force, I choke on nothing but the air I breathe. Their abhorrent, ugly faces leer at me while my arms and legs are stretched apart and shackled, in cuffs that tear my skin as the screws are plied brutally tight. I shiver, pain already beginning to breach my defenses. It is very cold, and gooseflesh prickles every expanse of my bare skin as I lie there naked and exposed.  
  
"Hoy, maybe this'll loosen yer tongue, little squeaker."  
  
Eyes, those glowing eyes that frighten me so badly shine in luminous wait as they examine my body. Stained, deformed teeth are bared in a wicked grin as one of them lowers its mouth to my waist. The sensation is obscene, its scaly-rough tongue licking along my hip, tasting me. I shriek in disgust, twisting and yanking my wrists until blood flows from the wounds and I can't feel my fingers anymore.  
  
"Can you feel it reaching for you, my dear hobbit?" croons Gandalf. If only the voice wasn't his, I feel compelled to listen. I can't shut it out. Sinewy talons proceed to tickle the mound of hair between my thighs, claws scrabbling lower to paw more sensitive flesh, and I throw my head back and scream, over and over, terror scraping my throat raw, the back of my skull banging uselessly on wooden slats. Light and fire descend to brand my ribs, pushing my screams into shrill wails of agony. Pain spirals my breathing faster, oh Elbereth, it hurts, it hurts! Why is this happening? How could Gandalf leave me this way?  
  
Cold fingers capture my chin, forcing my eyes slowly to the right. Gandalf himself scrutinizes me, his eyes glittering black coals that burn brightly over skin as gray as his cloak and beard. "So much pain and suffering. This can all be avoided if you heed my counsel, Frodo."  
  
Mouth open, I am making whimpering, mewling noises, trapped in the back of my throat by my convulsive draughts for air. Tears stream freely down my cheeks. "W-Wh- What do y-you m-mean?"  
  
"It is fairly simple-bring me the Ring. Deliver it to me, and you will be spared this torment."  
  
"This is merely a d-dream," I stammer. "I am n-not truly h-here."  
  
"Are you certain, Frodo? Place it upon your finger, and your path shall be clear."  
  
"Gandalf said to keep it safe." My words at least sound brave, despite how I am shaking. "You are not he. I do not believe it will be safe in your company."  
  
"Quiet, sniveling halfling! Do as I command, or suffer my wrath!"  
  
"No! You are not Gandalf the Gray-" My voice falters when a sizzling crack rents the air, and I feel a stinging lash over my ribs. Pain twists a raging fire along the length of split skin, and I gasp. "You aren't real, you don't belong here!"  
  
"You hurt, don't you, Hobbit? The pain is as real as if it were of the flesh, is it not? Another lash tears across the smooth, tender skin of my belly, making me writhe. I want to curl into a tiny ball of misery, only my bonds won't allow it. My muscles are stretched to the point of cramping, and it's getting harder to breathe. The next lash strikes, and I am drowning in my own cries. The leather makes a wet, slurping whistle each time it rips into my skin.  
  
"Frodo, dear boy, listen to Gandalf."  
  
I turn my head, lost in the pain. "Mama," I sob, almost too far gone to care. "I've done what you asked of me. Please, help me, stop the pain."  
  
"How much can you hope to endure before your mind snaps, young Mr. Baggins?" asks Gandalf. "When your thoughts and actions are no longer your own, and you lie in the endless squalor and filth of insanity."  
  
Thrashing against the shackles binding my wrists and ankles, I gaze at him, my heart pounding as my fear devours me whole. My mind, I despair, I could lose myself to this horror, be trapped forever in a fractured shell between life and death. My panic runs so deep I can think of nothing else. Then the lash from the whip rips a hoarse cry from me. With no warning, a clawed finger slips between my spread legs and fondles me roughly, razor- sharp nails stroking and pricking, leaving horror to strangle me mute. I jerk my wrists until they bleed again, the hurt not sufficient to overshadow this awful attack. Digging, grubby hands part the cheeks of my bottom. I shriek hysterically, loud and long and hard, falling into a place where there is no breath or voice left.  
  
"This is what will happen, Frodo."  
  
"No, Mama, no." I am braced for the blistering weal that comes, a narrow strip of agony that cuts through the thin skin covering my ribs, the second blow opening a gash in my stomach. I howl in pain.  
  
"Only you have the power to alter your course. You must choose, Frodo."  
  
More lashes feed on my chest and thighs, scouring off skin, pain chewing my flesh into a flayed rawness. "Mama, it hurts," I sob, "please make it stop now. I've been good, Mama. I promise.please, I've been good."  
  
"Choose."  
  
A sheer wall of alluring blackness looms in front of my eyes. I teeter there, perched on the edge of a knife. It doesn't seem real, but another voice calls to me. Weaving through the agonized fog in my mind, it pulls away layers of tortured moments to whisper a new and different purpose.  
  
"The Ring 'as to be destroyed. 'Tis the only way out of this foul snare." It's Sam this time. Dear old Sam. I can no longer hear the whip, yet my wounds burn like flaming embers from a well-stoked fire. I badly want to trust him, trust this is real. Can I be sure?  
  
"Sam?" My voice is cracked into a hollow whisper, barely audible. "It is y-you?"  
  
"You 'ave to cast it away, afore it's too late."  
  
Do I dare hope to believe? Am I home again? During this treacherous seduction, I have been harshly prodded to put on the Ring, never to destroy it. The fall of the whip stuns me, making me yelp, snatching away any thought of where I am. Tiny smelts of fire meld. Dancing over my skin, shocking nerves that have felt too much already. My belly is a searing crucible of constant agony.  
  
Hopelessness descends to leave me sobbing anew. I believe this to be the end. I would rather die than endure one more minute of this torture. Please, let it end. But something remains, perhaps a fragment of my soul refusing to bow and be extinguished. I cannot give in. I cannot let It win. A strange calm envelops me, the darkness eradicated by a growing curtain of light. It is bright and warm, and I feel drawn to this small measure of comfort.  
  
"Frodo! No!" Sam's frantic voice shouts right in my ear, causing me to jump, my chin striking the floor to rattle my teeth together. At once, my only instinct is to flee, to scrabble forward on hands and knees where I reach the fender, huddling around it with a gasp. I gaze around wildly. The faint, woven pattern of the hearth-rug stretches before my eyes, a piece of home I recognize, given to Bilbo for his one-hundredth birthday. Bag End.I am home.I am free from this nightmare at last.  
  
Lured to the glimmering in the fireplace, the flames mesmerize me as I continue to stare, gradually making out the scorched envelop lying forgotten against the side of the chimney, charred paper slowly dissolving to reveal a shining band of gold. The Ring! I must destroy It! Sam told me so, it will release me, banish the horrid dreams forever. Oh, bless me, grant me strength. I crawl closer, ignoring the fierce heat blasting in my face.  
  
"Frodo, you can't! You'll be burned!" Considerable weight knocks me flat. Sam, clinging to my back, his breath fast and hot on my neck.  
  
"I have to destroy It!" I shout, reaching out my hand, struggling to clasp the jewel that has caused me such pain. I kick furiously, feet connecting with the poker and shovel, sending them flying with a terrible racket. "It can't hurt me again, I won't let It!"  
  
My left hand is grabbed and wrenched to my side. I feebly inch forward with my right, extending my bandaged fingers. My reach draws even to the stone buttress of the chimney. The Ring is so close, if I can just reach a little farther.fling It into the flames and let It burn.  
  
"No, I won't allow ya to do this!" I am suddenly yanked to my feet and spun around. The change is too abrupt, my vision tunnels into a black nothingness, and I feel myself falling. Nonono! I must be rid of It! I'm turned upside down, and blood is sent rushing to my head, pounding behind my eyes, and all I can see is cloth and the rounded rim of the door-step to Bag End. Then Sam is lowering me gently to the ground. My head spins, and I feel weak and dizzy.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam says breathlessly, still holding onto my forearms. Brown eyes lock with mine, the fading daylight catching on his tears where they cling to his lashes. "I couldn't let ya do it. Stickin' yer hand in the fire would 'ave burned ya 'orribly. I couldn't let ya 'urt yerself that way."  
  
I try to speak, am only able to muster a thick, choked cry. My chest is heaving, my gut twisted into a gnarled loop of fear and remembered pain. I start panting harder and harder, my cheeks sweaty and stinging from the heat of the fire, and when I look at my hand, the bandage is darkened by blood and soot. I shiver uncontrollably, prompting Sam to pull me close, adding the warmth of his body to mine. It is not enough. Cold gnaws at me from the inside, breaking down the last of my defenses.  
  
I begin to cry, great wrenching sobs tearing free from where I had buried them deep, threatening to split me in half. I am alone, there is no one to help me. Sam has a good heart, but no amount of bravery can fight this evil. Even the voices have forsaken me. Moments ago, I yearned for nothing but their silence; now, I mourn their parting.  
  
"Shhh," Sam soothes, rocking me in his arms. "It'll turn out all right, Mr. Frodo. Everything'll be better by morning's light."  
  
"B-but it w-won't, Sam," I stutter, weeping bitterly. I shut my eyes, though it does not halt the steady stream of tears. "Things will n-never be t-the s-same. No matter w-what happens, I've s-seen where I'll e-end up one d-day." I curl against him, but cannot stay warm. I can still feel the whip's bite as it flays off my skin, feel the groping, violating fingers as they touch me. "The Shire is l-lost to m-me now, I can n-never go b-back. It's a-all g-gone, don't y-you s-see? Every-th-thing is l- lost!"  
  
A heavy cloak of despair weighs upon my shoulders, and things begin to slip away. I think I hear Sam murmur more words of intended comfort, but I am fading quickly. Still aware enough to sense the lingering fingers on my forehead, and I hear Sam say, "He's in a bad way, Sir."  
  
Someone asks, "How long has he been ill?"  
  
"Just a few days," Sam answers.  
  
Briefly, I wonder whom he is speaking with. And how he got so strong, that his arms lift me effortlessly. Then the blessed relief of fainting sleep claims me, and I know nothing more.  
  
To Be Continued. 


	7. Chapter Seven: Bludgeonings Of Chance

AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
Chapter Seven: Bludgeonings of Chance  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings  
  
Rating: Back to PG-13 for some violence and slightly less graphic ickiness  
  
Genre: Angst, h/c  
  
Summary: Set after Bilbo leaves but before Frodo departs the Shire  
  
Disclaimer: See Chapter One  
  
POV: Frodo  
  
  
  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
  
My head is bloody, but unbowed ~W.E. Henley  
  
It feels like a long time passes before I desire to wake again. Sound is the first sense to call me back to awareness, breaking the bounds of my quiet, peaceful refuge in a startlingly loud clamor of what seems to be cooking pans banging together. A ribald oath is uttered, followed by a softer spoken, "Drat this mess! Look what you've gone an' done, ya silly ninnyhammer!"  
  
Sam. I smile, not yet opening my eyes, content to listen to my friend puttering around in the kitchen, cleaning up whatever disaster he's inadvertently brought down. Curiosity finally tempts me to open my eyes, and see I am in my bedroom at Bag End. Candlelight flickers steady and bright along the walls, the early morning sun painting a pleasant yellow glow at the other end of the hall. Comfortably ensconced on pillows and under blankets, I am initially too drowsy to lend my worries much thought.  
  
Quickly enough, though, the memory of the darkness which tainted my mind resurfaces, and I wonder if I am dreaming. My room does feel like my own again, warm and inviting, a place not scary in the least. However, I have recently learned that everything is not always as it appears. To that end, I raise myself up, but the movement is too fast and too abrupt, and suddenly I can't see properly. Sliding sideways, my balance is off, and I cry out in alarm when I feel myself falling. My flailing hand catches on the edge of a basin perched atop the bedside table and sends it flying with a spectacular crash, the water it contained splashing everywhere. Oh dear, I've made a mess of my own.  
  
Sam comes running, and acts delighted to see me, in spite of the fact I am soaked from the knees down, as is the floor. "Mr. Frodo, yer awake! Might I ask how yer feelin'?"  
  
Other than wet? Pushing back to sit comfortably with my legs dangling over the edge of the bed, I take stock of my feelings. It is with some surprise that I admit I feel.rested. For the first time since the voices invaded my dreams, I don't feel as if the weight of the Shire is strapped upon my back. My fear is lessened, I decide, more of a lingering bad taste in my mouth than a towering nightmare of evil imperiling me to scream even whilst awake. I feel light, like my cares have been plucked away and wounds all but healed. But what I recall of that bleak night still seems clear, it was so horrible, how can this be?  
  
"I don't understand, Sam," I murmur in wonder. "How can I feel so much better with the passing of a single night? I almost feel as if none of it actually happened, that it was all.just a dream."  
  
"Well, you've slept, for starters. Almost two days solid."  
  
My eyes round in disbelief. "I can't possibly have stayed in bed that long."  
  
"Assuredly, ya did." I notice the worry lines on Sam's brow have eased much since last I saw him, and that his eyes now shine with enormous relief. "Except for takin' water and getting up a few times, yer sleep's been deep indeed. Ya didn't even wake yesterday when my gaffer tended to yer hand."  
  
I quickly inspect my right hand. Bruises that 'twere so blue and dark have faded to a duller brown. The bandage is smaller, wrapped only about my finger. And while the finger itself remains stiff and swollen, it doesn't hurt anymore. In fact, all my aches and pains seem to have vanished. Even the darkness clinging to my mind has been shuttered, remaining behind as only a memory. A memory that no longer has the power to hurt me.  
  
Sobering, I shake my head. "This doesn't ring true, Sam. I should not have been able to accomplish so much on my own."  
  
"No, not alone, you 'ad 'elp-" Sam suddenly flushes, brown eyes dropping evasively to the floor.  
  
It is obvious he is hiding something. "What are you talking about?" I ask sternly. Vague, scattered recollections whirl in my head. The voices, following me in ceaseless discord, they sound so loud.overpowering. Then a single voice rises above all the others, Sam's voice. And another.familiar.too distant for me to discern. "Who else has been here?"  
  
He squirms for half a minute, then blows out a rueful sigh. "Oh, I've blabbed when I shouldn't 'ave. I suppose it's too late now, I'll 'ave to tell ya."  
  
My heart races faster, and I stiffen and lean forward. There had been someone else.a voice in the night. "Tell me what, Sam?"  
  
Hesitantly, his glance meets my own. "Gandalf, he dropped by for a visit."  
  
"Gandalf?" I nearly leap to my feet, my jaw slackening with shock. "Gandalf came here?" Livid with an unreasonable anger, my tone affronts with everything I have held in for so long. "Why did you not tell me? Why did you wait and not wake me? I should have liked to see him!" My throat tightens. "I needed to see him."  
  
"'Cause he told me not to!" Sam blurts, voice climbing. "It was that terrible night you were seein' things.things that weren't there.but things such that could 'urt ya somethin' awful all the same!" He stares at me, brown eyes dulled by unshed tears. "I've never 'eard anyone scream like that, Mr. Frodo. I think I shall 'ear the echo of those terrifyin' cries for a long time to come."  
  
All the anger drains out of me like tea through a sieve, and I exhale shakily. "Me also, Sam," I whisper.  
  
He offers me a sad smile, a ghost of his earlier joy. "After ya tried to put yer hand in the fire, I didn't know what else ta do. So I slung ya over my shoulder an' took ya outside." He shudders, his gaze turned inward, remembering. I am frozen like a statue on the edge of my mattress, testing how long I can hold my breath. "You were in a bad way, Mr. Frodo. Cryin' in yer sleep, mumblin' things.awful things.and even with me holdin' ya, you didn't know where ya was. How long we sat like that, I don't rightly know, for then Gandalf came, an' when he gathered ya up, you went limp an' quiet. 'Twas like a babe solaced in its mother's arms." Sam drops beside me on the bed, a choked sigh leaving his lips. "I was so grateful, I can't tell ya how much.yer sleep was peaceful from then on. Gandalf left at first light, an' he made me promise not to tell ya he'd been 'ere. But me an' my big mouth.can't keep it shut, as usual."  
  
"I'm glad you told me, Sam. I should have liked to visit with Gandalf." I draw a hard breath, for this is what hurts the most. ".but since he did not wish to speak to me, I understand." Or at least, will strive to. I feel my face begin to crumple, the cold knot in my belly threatening to bring fresh tears to my eyes. I swallow convulsively, for I cannot help but feel Gandalf has abandoned me, tossed me aside like a worn, hackneyed cloak no longer useful for countermanding the cold. Just as in my dream, he does not care.  
  
"No, that's not it at all!" Sam half-turns to face me, mouth set in a determined line. "I think Gandalf was worried 'bout ya, worried enough as to what was causin' yer sickness that 'e felt 'e 'ad to rush off. No matter what 'e wanted.an' what Gandalf wanted was to stay an' tend to you." I blink rapidly, a lump lodging in my throat. "There 'twas a desperate quality in 'is look, Mr. Frodo. He was afraid." Sam's voice drops to a lower register, though it loses none of its passion. "I've never seen 'im so frantic before."  
  
It's plain Sam is quite disturbed by this. For myself, I feel much the same. If Gandalf is fearful, what fate is consigned to me? I flounder on the sharp point of panic as I digest the news, only to be slowly calmed by the strange serenity I have acquired since waking. I do not believe such emanations originate from my own causing. I am not that strong, especially now so collied by my company of inherited troubles.  
  
"Sam-" I start to say, and have to think a tic before I can ask. "Did Gandalf attend me with any restorative spells or show of wizardry before he departed? I can't recall anything after you brought me outside."  
  
Sam's usual compulsion to talk is tempered by uncharacteristic dalliance. His eyes narrow slightly, and I can almost see him sifting through events, trying to decide how much I'm well enough to hear. "Mr. Gandalf, he did hold ya close and mutter a few foreign words in yer ear. You was greatly eased by 'is touch, I could tell. An' thereafter ya slept without any of those dreams unsettlin' yer rest. That's all I reckon to know."  
  
I suddenly long to return to the comfortable ignorance I enjoyed under Bilbo's fostering, when I was unaware of the evils lurking beyond Shire borders. It is a hollow desire, no longer within my grasp. "Did Gandalf speak any of his travels, of why he had to leave again?"  
  
My question seems to startle Sam, and I watch while he shakes his head slowly, eyes widening a fraction as though the answer just came to him. "'E spent most of 'is time 'ere by this bed, quiet an' broodin' over what 'ad 'appened, I guess. Didn't say much, an' his countenance was such I knew better than to pester 'im with silly questions. I must've dozed off as well, 'cause the next thing I knew, the sun 'ad risen an' he was biddin' me goodbye."  
  
"So he mentioned nothing of what tasks had occupied him since his prior departure?" I venture, moistening my lips. "Or of Bilbo, and the reason f-for my." The stammer creeps unwillingly into my speech, and I clutch nervously at the pillowcase. ".m-my illness?"  
  
Sam purses his lips, and shrugs. "'E did promise to return within a fortnight."  
  
Oh, Gandalf, I needed your counsel.why could you not have waited? Dejected, I glance at Sam. A new thought suddenly occurs to me. I have no idea what Sam thinks of my strange behavior these past few days and nights. Whether he believes I was acting oddly in the same cracked manner as Bilbo had often fallen into, gaining ill-favor from most shirefolk for having bold adventures far from home. After all, I was his relation, Bilbo's chosen heir. A great many here would not be surprised if I followed in my uncle's footsteps.disappeared.to never be heard from again. Or does Sam simply think I am cracked in the head, conjuring up phantoms out of thin air and screeching in terror over nothing? He doesn't know of Bilbo's ring, of the terrible power is seems able to wield. Not directly. Not unless I mumble of if in my sleep. Gripped by this different sort of fear, my throat goes so dry I can hardly swallow. Because I find it matters to me a great deal what Sam thinks, more than I first realized.  
  
"It's not yer fault, Mr. Frodo." Gratitude warms my heart at these earnestly spoken words. It is like Sam knows what I am thinking merely from my look. "You didn't ask for any of this to 'appen.whatever this is, 'tis not of yer doin'. I don't pretend to understand what yer goin' through, where these past few days might lead us, but if there's anything ya need, you just ask, an' I'll see it's done." He slaps his thighs and hops off the bed, throwing me one last glance as he moves to leave.  
  
"You've done all I asked, and more," I blurt quickly. He stops, turning to face me. "You are becoming a good friend, Sam."  
  
"Friend?" His brows knit together, his head shaking a slight denial.  
  
I lose the battle to keep a solemn tone, for a smile tugs at my lips. "Yes, friend," I repeat emphatically. "Agreeable companion, unselfish ally, an acquaintance who sticks with you through thick and thin."  
  
"But, Mr. Frodo." Sam protests, gazing about like he's afraid someone is eavesdropping, ".that's not altogether proper. I mean." He eyes me, torn between doubt and the sake of appearance, and ultimately his desire to comply with what I am asking. Not just for me, but because he's also finding the connection between us worth encouraging.  
  
"You'll not be rid of me that easy, Samwise Gamgee. I have a say in who are my friends, and who are not," I state clearly. "And I say you are most definitely my friend." Sam lowers his head, though not before I see the pleased smile lurking around his mouth. "Propriety does not matter, and if anyone tries to say otherwise, they shall be answerable to me."  
  
"Aye, Mr. Frodo, that I'll 'ave no trouble seein' to." He again makes for the door, explaining, "I'll just go and find somethin' to clean that water up. Don't you be tryin' anything like walkin' 'til I get back."  
  
I sit and stare at my feet, fixating on the right one. Swollen and not healed completely, it still bears the ring of bruises from my fall. Idly, I wonder if it will bear my weight now, only I determine not to test it just yet. It would be a sad state if I were to re-injure the ankle due to clumsy recklessness and impatience. These feet are going to have to carry me long and far someday. Soon perhaps.sooner than I should want.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, what's wrong?"  
  
Sam has an old rag, and is mopping the floor around my feet. I don't know what he sees in my face, enough evidently to realize my mood has darkened. "Oh, Sam, I fear this won't last. I probably shall have to leave soon, and thinking about it brings a heaviness to dwell in my heart."  
  
"Don't be silly, Mr. Frodo," Sam maintains, "yer not goin' anywhere. Leastways, not without me yer not." He sounds so positive and upbeat, I find I nearly believe it without question. "Oh, I forgot-Mr. Gandalf left a letter for ya. Said it was to be put in a safe place, so I tossed it in that old chest, laid it under some of Bilbo's scrolls."  
  
I think I stop breathing. I know in reality I do not, but it feels that way. The fear is there all at once, stalking my thoughts from a distance like a fierce predator. Whatever spell of protection remains, it succeeds in staying the influence of welling darkness, but for how much longer I can only guess. I wrap my arms about my middle, and say softly, "It is not a letter."  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
A/N: I think there will be one more chapter, possibly two. A question for Ariel-is there a site you would recommend for posting my story other then ff.net (which always seems to be down lately) or nidaiwe (now closed, darn it!)? 


	8. Chapter Eight: Is It Secret, Is It Safe?

AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS  
  
Chapter Eight: Is It Secret, Is It Safe?  
  
Author: Kidders  
  
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness  
  
Genre: Angst  
  
Summary: Set after Bilbo leaves but before Frodo departs the Shire  
  
Disclaimer: See Chapter One  
  
Copyright: All dialogue in this part is primarily from the movie, FOTR, which you will probably recognize, and that belongs to PJ, Philippa, and Fran. And Tolkien, of course. The rest is humbly mine.  
  
POV: Frodo  
  
I stand on the path just outside Bag End, staring at the darkened stoop and closed door. It looks just as it always has, safe, unclouded. Because the stain is imbedded in my mind. There is nothing I would rather do than forget these past few weeks, but all I need is go in and glance at the mantelpiece, and all the dark memories are thrust back into my recollection like an arrow delivered to its mark. It is strange to feel both repelled and drawn to the entrance of my home. I gather a deep breath, sensing Sam at my elbow.  
  
"Are ya certain yer ready to go back to livin' alone?" he asks softly. There is only a slight breeze tonight, so the air is quiet, the ceaseless droning of insects creating the illusion of a peaceful, welcoming Hobbit hole.  
  
I slowly nod, my courage fortified by a great many ales consumed at the Green Dragon. It has been a wonderful evening, spent with friends and kin, and there has been much singing and dancing and drinking. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be just a simple Hobbit from the Shire. "I have to face this eventually, Sam. Tonight is as good a night as any. Besides, you've done quite enough for me already. You're needed back at home."  
  
Sam gives me a thorough inspection, though I doubt he can see much in the fading light. He is apparently satisfied, and is off with an agreeable, "Right then. Good night, Mr. Frodo."  
  
"Goodnight, Sam." I sigh, and open the gate, taking the steps slower than usual. I am in no hurry, and find myself reluctant to have the evening come to an end. Finally, weariness steers me into the foyer, where there is a single torch still burning in the sconce on the wall near the study. I frown, thinking I did not leave any candles burning. It is not a custom I practice when Bag End is unattended. I pad softly past the coat rack, stumbling to a halt when I hear a faint creak emanating from Bilbo's study. Paper rustles softly in a sudden wind driven through the open window, and I listen intently for any other sounds which do not belong. Swallowing is made difficult from the growing lump in my throat, because I am certain I did not leave the window open. I venture a few more steps, trying to look in every direction at once. This development does not sit well with me. Something is very wrong.  
  
That something transpires into a heavy weight falling over my shoulder, twirling me about so fast I stagger. A tall figure with wild hair and crazed eyes emerges from the shadows, and I gasp, glued where I stand, unable to move or think or cry for help. The man's face leans over me, drawing frighteningly close. Only then do I realize it is Gandalf.  
  
"Is it secret?" he hisses, his gaze darting across the room quicker than my eyes can follow. "Is it safe?"  
  
I suck in a choking breath that is rudely interrupted by an inopportune swallow, and double over coughing. His hand tightens on my shoulder, until I am finally able to straighten and answer with a nod. I do not trust my voice yet. 'Tis better to give him the ring at once, regardless. It is what he's come for. For a moment, I think badly of him, for he does not inquire about my health or whether I am safe. But the ring.I suppress a shudder.he is welcome to it.  
  
I go and kneel before the chest, digging around under a multitude of scrolls and maps acquired by Bilbo, at last finding the envelope containing what I seek. I have not seen it since that fateful night Sam prevented me from burning myself. And by luck or spell, I have not desired to look upon it, to put it on, or listen to its ramblings since. I am musing how glad I am the voices have been silenced when Gandalf snatches the envelope from my hand. He strides to the hearth-which is well stoked-and tosses it, parchment and all, into the awaiting flames. The paper crackles, consumed in a fiery sizzle.  
  
I feel uneasiness stir queasily in my stomach. "What are you doing?"  
  
Gandalf plucks the Ring from the fireplace, and I am close enough to see the band shines like it was forged only yesterday. There is no soot or ash clinging to the golden surface. "Hold out your hand, Frodo." I glance at him in dismay, but he assures me, "It's quite cool." I hold out my hand, and suddenly it is lying heavy in my palm. "Can you see anything?"  
  
Other than a thing that has haunted my days and evenings for nearly a fortnight? I do not utter such words, though my mind thinks them nonetheless. Following Gandalf's instruction, I stare at the Ring, except all I can focus on is how soon I can be rid of it. "Nothing," I murmur, "there's nothing." I hear him grunt, and the Ring shimmers in my hand, red glowing letters scrolling over its surface. Astonished, I amend, "Wait.there are markings. It's some form of Elvish.I can't read it."  
  
"There are very few who can," says Gandalf, facing me. "The language is that of Mordor, which I will not utter here."  
  
"Mordor?" I croak. I feel my lips part in shock, and am shaken with a nagging desire to fling this gold bauble away from me. I feel as if It's brand is burning through my palm. Not with fire, but ice.  
  
Gandalf lowers his countenance to my level, and speaks gravely, "In the common tongue, it says, 'One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.'"  
  
His voice resonates with fear and anger. I have never heard this way. Never. I am taken by such nervousness, I lead us into the kitchen for distraction. I brew a kettle of water to make tea, play the polite host and pour him the first mug. All the while, fear is twisting around my innards and making my throat burn.  
  
"This is the One Ring," Gandalf continues, "forged by the dark lord Sauron in the fires of Mount Doom, taken by Isildur from the hand of Sauron himself."  
  
I lift my mug, meaning to take a sip, but find I no longer have an appetite for food or liquid. "Bilbo found it," I say meekly, pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together, bringing images I cannot bear to dwell upon. "In Gollum's cave."  
  
"Yes, for sixty years the Ring lay quiet in Bilbo's keeping, prolonging his life, delaying old age." Gandalf's eyes darken, stricken by such craven bleakness I shudder involuntarily. "But no longer, Frodo. Evil is stirring in Mordor. The Ring has awoken, It's heard its master call."  
  
I gulp, abandoning all pretense of sipping brew. My head is spinning, I cannot think. All I can do is feel. "But he was destroyed," I whisper desperately, "Sauron was destroyed."  
  
The Ring whispers in return, drawing my gaze in a slew of panic. Gandalf hears it as well, I can see it in his eyes. "No, Frodo. The spirit of Sauron endured. His life force is bound to the Ring. The Ring survived. Sauron has returned." I stare at the Ring in dawning horror, a sense of what is to come teasing at my thoughts. Gandalf would not tell me of this if he could take this task upon himself. Somehow, I am to be bound to this Ring.  
  
"His Orcs have multiplied, his fortress of Barad-Dur is rebuilt in the land of Mordor. Sauron needs only this Ring to cover all the lands in a second darkness. He is seeking It, seeking It always, thought is bent on It. The Ring yearns above all else to return to the hand of its master." My heart is in my throat, my hands won't keep still. I clutch at the edge of the table, trying and trying to swallow, but the lump wedged in my caw won't budge. "They are one.the Ring and the dark lord. Frodo." Gandalf stares hard in my direction, his meaning clear, though I do not wish to hear it. ".he must never find it."  
  
"All right then." I scoop up the Ring, forgetting about my reluctance to touch it, and hurry into the study. "We put it away. We keep it hidden, we never speak of it again. No one knows it's here, do they?" I pause, the Ring tightly nestled in my fist. Gandalf has followed me. I know without turning his gaze is boring into me. I pivot slowly. "Do they, Gandalf?"  
  
Worry wrinkles Gandalf's brow, hooding his glance with sadness. "There is one other who knew that Bilbo had the Ring." He sighs, sounding very old and worn. "I've looked everywhere for the creature Gollum, but the Enemy found him first. I don't know how long they tortured him, but amidst the endless screaming and inane babble, they discerned two words."  
  
I feel my eyes go impossibly wide, for I know what he will say. Two words, the two words echo in my mind.Shire.Baggins.squealed in a voice not my own. No, no, I do not want this knowledge! "Shire," I whisper hollowly, "Baggins.but that will lead them here!" I take a step forward. "Take it, Gandalf.take it!" Please, please take it, I haven't the strength to do this.  
  
Gandalf scuttles backward, an alarmed look on his face. "No, Frodo."  
  
"You must take it!" I march closer, holding out the Ring, my arm trembling ever so faintly. There is no spell or charm now to ease my fears, and they rush through me like a howling storm blowing in from the Blue Mountains. Bilbo knew, keeping it so long, he had to have known.I am not all right! I will not be all right, Uncle!  
  
"You cannot offer me this Ring!" Gandalf asserts, backing away from me until the doorway blocks his retreat.  
  
"I'm giving it to you!" I cry, my breath shuddering sharp and painful within my ribs.  
  
"Don't tempt me, Frodo!" shouts Gandalf. I slowly lower the Ring, a horrible emptiness clawing at my heart as I begin to understand. "I dare not take it, not even to keep it safe. Understand, Frodo.I would use this Ring from a desire to do good.but through me, it would wield a power too great and terrible to imagine."  
  
Any hope I once had dies a brutal end in the face of this nightmare. It shall fall to me, become my task after all. The dreams, the awful things I saw and experienced, they may actually come to pass. "But it cannot stay in the Shire!" I say shrilly.  
  
"No," Gandalf agrees sadly, "no, it can't."  
  
I swallow hard, curling my fingers to press the Ring into my palm. It doesn't hurt, surprisingly, as my cut is almost healed. Unlike my soul, which is laid bare by such a wound, that I fear nothing will ever be the same. "What must I do?"  
  
We are leaving Hobbiton. Hurrying across fields and meadows, until we have crossed the road from the Brandywine Bridge and are well into Tookland. Gandalf seems to be in an awful hurry, his anxious gaze sweeping in all directions, checking to see if anyone is following us. There isn't a soul back there save Sam, who's fallen behind again. I am already sweaty and panting from exertion, so Sam with his slightly shorter legs isn't having a good time of it, either.  
  
"Come along, Samwise," growls Gandalf, "keep up!"  
  
I am unsure what we are running away from-what type of creature will Sauron send in pursuit of the Ring? The Orcs frighten me badly enough, I do not ask what else the dark lord might summon. Gandalf's strides lengthen, and when at last we halt, I am ready to drop from exhaustion. The combination of a few too many ales and no sleep this night has left me utterly spent. My head is lolling toward my chest, my eyes barely in focus by the time Gandalf stops. I am not paying much attention, and narrowly avoid running into his horse's backside, which the animal would no doubt not appreciate. I stumble around this obstacle in my path, listening to Sam wheezing behind me.  
  
"Be careful, both of you," Gandalf advises. "The Enemy has many spies in his service-birds, beasts." He leans down to meet my eyes. "Is it safe?"  
  
I do not have enough breath for words, and simply nod, patting my coat pocket where the Ring is hidden in sequestered keeping. "Never put It on, for the agents of the dark lord will be drawn to its power. Always remember, Frodo, the Ring is trying to get back to its master. It wants to be found."  
  
I lower my eyes to the ground, not certain what to say or think, my mind full of half-formed memories and nightmares. My path is not clear to me in the slightest. We take the Ring to Bree, but then what? Gandalf could not vouch with much assurance that it would be safe there. My doubts continue to circle in my mind, until for a gladdened instant, I experience the familiar swell of calmness that granted me peace those few fateful days when the Ring tried to drive me mad. Gandalf.  
  
Throwing my head back, I seek to acknowledge his kindness, to show Gandalf the depth of my gratitude, except he is already away, his mount bearing him in the swift passage of galloping hooves until he is only a speck in the distance. Sam and I are alone now. I sigh, shifting my pack, and when a bird screeches from somewhere high in the trees overhead, I startle and jump about a foot in the air. I look at Sam, feeling the need to repent for such silly, ridiculous behavior. If I am to tremor at every dismal magpie crossing our path, this will be a long journey indeed.  
  
Sam shakes his head, but no smile dimples his cheeks. His look is serious. "All dreams don't necessarily come true, Mr. Frodo. Ya 'ave ta believe the worst ones, the ones that scare ya right badly, won't come to pass. That they'll stay in the shadows where they belong."  
  
I find my eyes turning southeast, the echo of a piteous voice crying in my head.Shire.Baggins. "Some of it already has happened, Sam. That's the problem. The first verse of this tale has already come true."  
  
THE END  
  
A/N: Thanks again to any who reviewed my story. Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks especially to Ariel, who was there for every chapter. At least you let me know someone was still reading out there. 


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